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FREYTAG'S 


TECHNIQUE    OE    THE    DRAivlA 


AN    EXPOSITION    OF    DRAMATIC 
COMPOSITION  AND  ART 


DR.  GUSTAV  FREYTAG 


AN  AUTHORIZED  TRANSLATION   FROM   THE  SIXTH   GERMAN  EDITION 


ELIAS  J.  MACEWAN,  M.A. 


SECOND   EDITION. 


CHICAGO 

S.    C.   GRIGGS    &    COMPANY 
1896 


COPYRIGHT,  1894 

BY  S.  C.  GRIGGS  &  COMPANY 


Cfjr 

R.  R.  DONNELLEY  *  SONS  CO.,  CHICAGO 


CONTENTS. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 

INTRODUCTION.  —  Technique  of  the  drama  not  absolute.  Cer- 
tain craftsman's  skill  of  earlier  times.  Condition  of  present 
time.  Aristotle's  Poetics.  Lessing.  The  great  dramatic 
works  as  models.  ....".  1-8 


CHAPTER   I.  — DRAMATIC  ACTION. 

1.  THE  IDEA.  — How  the  drama  originates  in  the  mind  of  the 

poet.  Development  of  the  idea.  Material  and  its  trans- 
formation. The  historian  and  the  poet.  The  range  of 
material.  Transformation  of  the  real,  according  to  Aris- 
totle. -  -  9-18 

2.  WHAT  is  DRAMATIC?  — Explanation.    Effects.    Characters. 

The  action.    The  dramatic  life  of  the  characters.    Entrance 

of  the  dramatic  into  the  life  of  men.     Rareness  of  dramatic 

•^1  power.     -  -     19-27 

<O    ^3.  UNITY.  —  The  Law.    Among  the  Greeks.     How  it  is  pro- 

j*  duced.    How  the  unity  of  historical  material  is  not  secured. 

CQ  False   unity.     Where  dramatic   material  is  to  be   found. 

•  The  character  in  the  modern  drama.    Counter-play  and  its 

danger.     Episodes.  -    27-49 

Cd        4.  PROBABILITY.  —  What  is  probable.     Social   effects  of   the 
.£  drama.    The  strange.    The  marvellous.     Mephistopheles. 

I  The  irrational.     Shakespeare  and  Schiller.  •    49-61 

PQ       5.  IMPORTANCE  AND  MAGNITUDE.  — Weakness  of  characters. 

^  Distinguished  heroes.      Private  persons.     Degrading  the 

art.  -  -    61-66 

H- « 

lit 


1 0554 1 3 


iv  CONTENTS. 

6.  MOVEMENT  AND  ASCENT. — Public  actions.    Inward  strug- 

gles. Poet  dramas.  Nothing  important  to  be  omitted. 
Prince  of  Hamburg,  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Messenger 
scenes.  Concealment  and  effect  through  reflex  action. 
Effects  by  means  of  the  action  itself.  Necessity  of  ascent. 
Contrasts.  Parallel  scenes.  •  -  66-84 

7.  WHAT  is  TRAGIC?  —  How  far  the  poet  may  not  concern 

himself  about  it.  The  purging.  Effects  of  ancient  tragedy. 
Contrast  with  German  tragedy.  The  tragic  force  (moment). 
The  revolution  and  recognition.  -  84-103 


CHAPTER  II.  — THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF 
THE  DRAMA. 

1.  PLAY  AND  COUNTER-PLAY.  —  Two  halves.    Rise  and  fall. 

Two  kinds,  of  structure.  Drama  in  which  the  chief  hero 
leads.  Drama  of  counter-play.  Examples.  Spectacle- 
play  and  tragedy.  -  -  104-114 

2.  FIVE  PARTS  AND  THREE  CRISES. — The  introduction.    The 

exciting  force  (moment).  The  ascent.  The  tragic  force 
or  incident.  Falling  action.  The  force  or  motive  of  last 
suspense.  The  catastrophe.  Necessary  qualifications  of 
the  poet.  -  -  114-140 

3.  CONSTRUCTION  OF    THE  DRAMA   IN  SOPHOCLES. — Origin 

of  tragedy.  Pathos  scenes.  Messenger  scenes.  Dialogues. 
Representation.  The  three  actors.  Scope  of  their  work 
compared  with  modern  actors.  Same  actor  used  to 
strengthen  effects.  Cast  of  parts.  Ideas  of  preserved 
tragedies.  Construction  of  the  action.  The  characters. 
Ajax  as  an  example.  Peculiarity  of  Sophocles.  His  rela- 
tion to  the  myth.  The  parts  of  the  tragedy.  Antigone. 
King  CEdipus.  (Edipus  at  Colonos.  The  Trachinian 
Women.  Ajax.  Philoctetes.  -  -  140-181 

4.  GERMANIC     DRAMA. — Stage  of  Shakespeare.     Its  influence 

on  the  structure  of  the  pieces.  Shakespeare's  pe^u.inritie«?. 
\  Its  falling  action  and  its  weaknesses.  Construction  .,.' 
\ffamlet,  .....  181-19.' 


or  iff 


CONTENTS.  v 

5.  THE  FIVE  ACTS.  —  Influence  of  the  curtain  on  the  modern 
stage.  Development  of  the  act.  The  five  parts.  Their 
technical  peculiarities.  First  act.  Second.  Third.  Fourth. 
Fifth.  Examples.  Construction  of  the  double  drama, 
Wallenstein.  -  192-209 

CHAPTER   III.  — CONSTRUCTION  OF   SCENES. 

1.  MEMBERS.  —  Entrances.    Scenes.    Units  of  the  poet.    Their 

combination  into  scenes.  Structure  of  the  scene.  Inter- 
vals. Change  of  scenery.  Chief  scenes  and  subordinate 
scenes.  -  210-216 

2.  THE  SCENES  ACCORDING  TO  THE  NUMBER  OF  PERSONS. — 

Conduct  of  action  through  the  scenes.  Monologues.  Mes- 
senger scenes.  Dialogue  scenes.  Different  structure. 
Love  scenes.  Three  persons.  Ensemble  scenes.  Their 
laws.  The  galley  scene  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Banquet 
scene  in  Piccolomini.  Riitli  scene.  Parliament  in  Demet- 
rius. Mass  scenes.  Distributed  voices.  Battles.  216-245 

CHAPTER   IV.  — THE   CHARACTERS. 

1.  PEOPLES  AND  POETS.  —  Assumptions  of  dramatic  character- 

ization, creation,  and  after-creation.  Variety  of  peoples 
and  characters.  Germans  and  Latins.  Difference  accord- 
ing to  poets.  Shakespeare's  characters.  Lessing,  Goethe, 
Schiller.  -  -  246-266 

2.  CHARACTERS  IN  THE  MATERIAL  AND  IN  THE  PLAY.— The 

character  dependent  on  the  action.  Example  of  IVallcn- 
stcin.  Characters  with  portraiture.  Historical  characters. 
Poets  and  history.  Opposition  between  characters  and 
action.  The  epic  hero  intrinsically  undramatic.  Euripides. 
The  Germans  and  their  legends.  Older  German  history. 
Nature  of  historical  heroes.  Inner  poverty.  Mingling  of 
opposites.  Lack  of  unity.  Influence  of  Christendom. 
Henry  IV.  Attitude  of  the  poet  toward  the  appearances  of 
reality.  Opposition  between  poet  and  actor.  -  266-303 

3.  MINOR  RULES.  —  The  characters  must  have  dramatic  unity. 

The  drama  must  have  but  one  chief  hero.     Double  heroes. 


vi  CONTENTS. 

Lovers.  The  action  must  be  based  on  characteristics  of 
the  persons.  Easily  understood.  Mingling  of  good  and 
evil.  Humor.  Accident.  The  characters  in  the  different 
acts.  Demands  of  the  actor.  The  conception  of  the  stage 
arrangement  must  be  vivid  in  the  poet's  mind.  The 
province  of  the  spectacle  play.  What  is  it  to  write 
effectively?  -  303-322 

CHAPTER  V.  — VERSE  AND  COLOR. 

i.  PROSE  AND  VERSE.  —  Iambic  pentameter.  Tetrameter. 
Trimeter.  Alexandrine.  Verse  of  the  Nibelnngen  Lied. 
Dramatic  element  of  verse.  Color.  -  323-340 

CHAPTER  VI.  — THE   POET  AND  HIS  WORK. 

i.  POET  OF  MODERN  TIMES.  —  Material.  .Work.  Fitting  for 
the  stage.  Cutting  out.  Length  of  the  piece.  Acquain- 
tance with  the  stage.  -  341-366 


BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 


Gustav  Freytag,  scholar,  poet,  novelist,  critic,  play- 
wright, editor,  soldier,  publicist,  was  born  in  Kreuzburg, 
Silesia,  in  1816.  Still  living  in  quiet  retirement  in  Wies- 
baden, he  is  one  of  the  best  known  of  modern  German 
writers.  His  preliminary  education  was  acquired  at  the 
Gymnasium  of  Oels,  which  he  entered  in  1829,  at  the  age 
of  thirteen.  In  1835,  he  began  the  study  of  German 
philology  under  Hoffmann,  at  the  University  of  Bres- 
lau.  Later  he  continued  this  line  of  study  with  Lach- 
mann,  at  the  University  of  Berlin,  where,  in  1838-9,  he 
was  given  the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy,  on  the 
presentation  of  a  thesis  on  De  unfits  scettica  poeseos  apud 
Germanos.  Between  this  time  and  1846,  he  was  con- 
nected with  the  University  of  Breslau,  as  an  instructor  in 
the  German  .language  and  literature.  Having  gained 
some  notice,  as  the  author  of  a  comedy,  The  Bridal 
Journey  (1844),  and  a  volume  of  short  popular  poems, 
///  Breslau  (1845),  he  now  (1847),  >n  connection  with 
Julian  Schmidt,  undertook  the  management  of  the  politi- 
cal and  literary  newspaper,  Die  Grenzboten,  in  Leipzig. 
He  continued  his  literary  work,  and  entered  in  earnest 
upon  what  has  proved  the  long  and  honorable  career  of 
a  man  of  letters. 

In  1847,  Valentine  appeared,  followed  the  next  year 
by  Count  Waldemir,  both  society  plays,  evincing  the 
author's  dramatic  power,  and  with  his  inclination  toward 


viii  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTE. 

the  spirit,  the  dialectics,  and  the  sketchy  manner  of  the 
younger  writers,  showing  his  delicate  feeling  for  clear- 
ness and  purity  of  style,  his  skill  in  the  conduct  of  the 
action,  in  dialogue,  and  his  genial  fresh  humor.  His 
next  play,  The  Scholar,  is  rather  a  psychological  study  in 
a  single  act,  than  a  drama.  In  1854,  his  greatest  piece, 
The  Journalists,  was  first  acted;  and  it  is  still  one  of  the 
most  popular  modern  society  dramas  represented  on  the 
German  stage.  Perfectly  natural  and  healthful  in  tone, 
it  abounds  in  striking  situations,  depicts  with  fidelity 
many  important  types  of  German  character,  amusingly 
exhibits  social  rivalries  and  political  machinations,  and 
affords  abundant  opportunity  for  the  author's  effective 
satire.  Another  play,  The  Fabii,  appeared  in  1859. 

Freytag's  first  great  novel,  Soil  und  Haben  (1858), 
translated  into  English  under  the  title  of  Debit  and 
Credit  (1859),  has  become  a  classic.  In  this,  his  view  of 
human  life  is  broader  and  his  insight  into  the  springs  of 
human  action  deeper  than  in  his  plays.  Its  purpose  is 
to  show  the  value  and  dignity  of  a  life  of  labor.  It 
attempts  to  show  that  the  active,  vigorous  life  of  a  great 
German  merchant  is  purer,  nobler,  more  beneficent  than 
the  life  of  a  haughty  aristocrat,  relying  only  on  the 
traditional  merits  of  his  family;  and,  in  this  attempt,  the 
author  weaves  a  web  of  glory  about  the  life  of  the  ordi- 
nary citizen.  A  second  novel,  The  Lost  Manuscript 
(1864),  in  like  manner  shows  the  superiority  of  the 
scholar  over  the  nobleman. 

The  Technique  of  the  Drama  was  written  in  1863,  and 
dedicated  to  the  author's  friend — Wolf,  Count  of  Bau- 
dissin.  The  book  has  passed  through  six  editions,  and 
attained  the  rank  of  a  first-class  authority  on  the  matters 
of  which  it  treats,  though  now  for  the  first  time  trans- 
lated into  English. 


BIOGRAPHICAL   NOTE.  ix 

In  1862,  Freytag  began  his  famous  series  of  connected 
historic  tales,  in  New  Pictures  from  the  Life  of  the  Ger- 
man People,  continued  the  next  year  in  Pictures  from  the 
German  Pas/,  and  still  further  in  1876  and  later,  in  The 
Ancestors,  including  In  go  and  Ingraban;  The  Nest  of  the 
Hedge-sparrows;  The  Brothers  of  the  German  House; 
Marcus  King;  The  Brothers  and  Sisters;  From  a  Little 
City,  etc.  These  are  all  descriptions  of  German  life, 
based  on  accurate  research,  and  including  periods  from 
the  fourth  to  the  nineteenth  century.  Devoted  to  the 
glory  of  the  German  people,  this,  the  author's  most 
extensive  work,  makes  an  entertaining  exposition  of 
some  of  the  noblest  traits  of  German  character.  In 
1870,  he  published  a  striking  biography  of  his  intimate 
friend,  entitled  Karl  Mathy;  Story  of  His  Life. 

Freytag  continued  to  edit  Die  Grenzboten  for  twenty- 
three  years,  when  he  went  over  to  a  new  journal  called 
Im  Neuen  Reich.  His  political  writings  having  intro- 
duced him  to  public  life,  he  became  in  1867,  a  representa- 
tive of  the  Liberal  party  in  the  North-German  Parliament. 
On  the  breaking  out  of  the  Franco- Prussian  war  in  1870, 
he  entered  the  imperial  army  as  an  officer  on  the  staff  of 
the  Crown  Prince,  remaining  in  military  service  till  after 
the  Battle  of  Sedan.  He  gave  up  public  life  in  1879. 


INTRODUCTION. 


That  the  technique  of  the  drama  is  nothing 
absolute  and  unchangeable  scarcely  need  be  stated. 
Since  Aristotle  established  a  few  of  the  highest 
laws  of  dramatic  effect,  the  culture  of  the  human 
race  has  grown  more  than  two  thousand  years 
older.  Not  only  have  the  artistic  forms,  the  stage 
and  method  of  representation  undergone  a  great 
change,  but  what  is  more  important,  the  spiritual 
and  moral  nature  of  men,  the  relation  of  the 
individual  to  the  race  and  to  the  highest  forces 
of  earthly  life,  the  idea  of  freedom,  the  concep- 
tion of  the  being  of  Divinity,  have  experienced 
great  revolutions.  A  wide  field  of  dramatic 
material  has  been  lost  ;  a  new  and  greater  range 
has  been  won.  With  the  moral  and  political 
principles  which  control  our  life,  our  notion  of 
the  beautiful  and  the  artistically  effective  has 
developed.  Between  the  highest  art  effects  of 
the  Greek  festivals,  the  autos  sacramaitalcs,  and 
the  drama  of  the  time  of  Goethe  and  Iffland.the 
difference  is  not  less  great  than,  between  the 


2  INTRODUCTION. 

Hellenic  choral  theater,  the  structure  for  the  mys- 
tery play,  and  the  complete  inclosed  room  of 
the  modern  stage.  It  may  be  considered  certain 
that  some  of  the  fundamental  laws  of  dramatic 
production  will  remain  in  force  for  all  time  ;  in 
general,  however,  not  only  the  vital  requisites  of 
the  drama  have  been  found  in  continuous  devel- 
opment, but  also  the  artistic  means  of  producing 
its  effects.  Let  no  one  think  that  the  technique 
of  poetry  has  been  advanced  through  the  creations 
of  the  greatest  poets  only  ;  we  may  say  without 
self-exaltation  that  we  at  present  have  clearer  ideas 
upon  the  highest  art  effects  in  the  drama  and 
upon  the  use  of  technical  equipment,  than  had 
Lessing,  Schiller  and  Goethe. 

The  poet  of  the  present  is  inclined  to  look 
with  amazement  upon  a  method  of  work  in  which 
the  structure  of  scenes,  the  treatment  of  char- 
acters, and  the  sequence  of  effects  were  governed 
by  a  transmitted  code  of  fixed  technical  rules. 
Such  a  limitation  easily  seems  to  us  the  death 
of  free  artistic  creation.  Never  was  a  greater 
error.  Even  an  elaborate  system  of  specific  rules, 
a  certain  limitation  founded  in  popular  custom, 
as  to  choice  of  material  and  structure  of  the  piece, 
have  been  at  different  periods  the  best  aid  to 
creative  power.  Indeed,  they  are,  it  seems,  nee- 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

essary  prerequisites  of  that  rich  harvest  of  many 
past  periods,  which  has  seemed  to  us  so  enigmatical 
and  incomprehensible.  We  recognize  still  that 
Greek  tragedy  possessed  such  a  technique,  and 
that  the  greatest  poets  worked  according  to  crafts- 
man's rules  which  were  in  part  common,  and  in 
part  might  be  the  property  of  distinct  families 
and  guilds.  Many  of  these  were  well  known  to 
Attic  criticism,  which  judged  the  worth  of  a  piece 
according  to  them  —  whether  the  revolution  scene 
were  in  the  right  place  and  the  pathos  scene 
aroused  the  desired  degree  of  sympathy.  That 
the  Spanish  cloak-and-dagger  drama  artistically 
wove  the  threads  of  its  intrigue  likewise  according 
to  fixed  rules,  no  poetics  of  a  Castilian  informs 
us  ;  but  we  are  able  to  recognize  very  well  many 
of  these  rules  in  the  uniform  construction  of  the 
plays,  and  in  the  ever  recurring  characters  ;  and 
it  would  not  be  very  difficult  to  formulate  a  code 
of  peculiar  rules  from  the  plays  themselves.  These 
rules,  of  course,  even  to  contemporaries,  to  whom 
they  were  useful,  were  not  invariable  ;  through 
the  genius  and  shrewd  invention  of  individuals, 
these  gradually  learned  how  to  improve  and 
remodel,  until  the  rules  became  lifeless;  and  after 
a  period  of  spiritless  application,  together  with  the 
creative  power  of  the  poets,  they  were  lost. 


4  INTRODUCTION. 

It  is  true,  an  elaborate  technique  which  deter- 
mines not  only  the  form,  but  also  many  aesthetic 
effects,  marks  out  for  the  dramatic  poetry  of  a 
period  a  limit  and  boundary  within  which  the 
greatest  success  is  attained,  and  to  transgress  which 
is  not  allowed  even  to  the  greatest  genius.  In 
later  times  such  a  limitation  is  considered  a  hin- 
drance to  a  versatile  development.  But  even  we 
Germans  might  be  well  content  with  the  unap- 
preciative  judgment  of  posterity  if  we  only 
possessed  now  the  aid  of  a  generally  useful  tech- 
nique. We  suffer  from  the  opposite  of  narrow 
limitations,  the  lack  of  proper  restraint,  lack  of 
form,  a  popular  style,  a  definite  range  of  dramatic 
material,  firmness  of  grasp  ;  our  work  has  become 
in  all  directions  casual  and  uncertain.  Even  to-day, 
eighty  years  after  Schiller,  the  young  poet  finds 
it  difficult  to  move  upon  the  stage  with  confidence 
and  ease. 

If,  however,  we  must  deny  ourselves  the  advant- 
age of  composing  according  to  the  craftsman's 
traditions  which  were  peculiar  to  the  dramatic  art 
as  well  as  to  the  plastic  arts  of  former  centuries, 
yet  we  should  not  scorn  to  seek,  and  intelligently 
to  use,  the  technical  rules  of  ancient  and  modern 
times,  which  facilitate  artistic  effects  on  our  stage. 
To  be  sure,  these  rules  are  not  to  be  prescribed 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

at  the  dictation  of  a  single  person,  not  established 
through  the  influence  of  one  great  thinker  or  poet  ; 
but  drawn  from  the  noblest  effects  of  the  stage,  they 
must  include  what  is  essential  —  they  must  serve 
criticism  and  creative  power  not  as  dictator,  but 
as  honest  helper;  and  under  them  a  transformation 
and  improvement  according  to  the  needs  of  the 
time  is  not  to  be  excluded. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  technical  rules  of  a 
former  time,  in  accordance  with  which  the  play- 
wright must  construct  the  artistic  framework  of  his 
piece,  have  been  so  seldom  transmitted  in  writing 
to  later  generations.  Two  thousand  two  hundred 
years  have  passed  since  Aristotle  formulated  a  part 
of  these  laws  for  the  Hellenes.  Unfortunately 
his  Poetics  has  come  down  to  us  incomplete. 
Only  an  outline  has  been  received,  which  unskilled 
hands  have  made  —  a  corrupt  text  with  gaps, 
apparently  disconnected  chapters,  hastily  thrown 
together.  In  spite  of  this  condition,  what  we 
have  received  is  of  highest  value  to  us.  To  this 
our  science  of  the  past  is  indebted  for  a  glance 
into  the  remains  of  the  Hellenes'  theater  world. 
In  our  text-books  on  aesthetics,  this  still  affords 
the  foundation  for  the  theory  of  our  dramatic 
art,  and  to  the  growing  poet,  some  chapters  of 
the  little  work  are  instructive;  for  besides  a  theory 


6  INTRODUCTION. 

of  dramatic  effects,  as  the  greatest  thinker  of 
antiquity  explained  them  to  his  contemporaries, 
and  besides  many  principles  of  a  popular  system 
of  criticism,  as  the  cultured  Athenian  brought  it 
into  use  in  considering  a  new  production,  the 
work  contains  many  fine  appliances  from  the 
workshops  of  antiquity,  which  we  can  use  to  great 
advantage  in  our  labors.  In  the  following  pages, 
so  far  as  the  practical  purpose  of  the  book  will 
allow,  these  will  be  the  subject  of  our  discussion. 
It  is  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  since  Lessing 
undertook  to  decipher  for  the  Germans  this  ste- 
nography of  the  ancients.  His  Hamburgische 
Dramaturgic  was  the  avenue  to  a  popular  com- 
prehension of  the  dramatically  beautiful.  The 
victorious  battle  which  he  waged  in  this  book, 
against  the  tyranny  of  French  taste,  will  secure 
to  him  forever  the  respect  and  affection  of  the 
German  people.  For  our  time,  the  polemic  past 
is  of  most  importance.  Where  Lessing  elucidates 
Aristotle,  his  understanding  of  the  Greek  does 
not  seem  entirely  sufficient  for  our  present  time, 
which  has  at  hand  a  more  abundant  means  of 
explanation ;  where  he  exposes  the  laws  of  dra- 
matic creation,  his  judgment  is  restricted  by  the 
narrow  conception  of  the  beautiful  and  effective, 
which  he  himself  accepted. 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

Indeed,  the  best  source  of  technical  rules  is 
the  plays  of  great  poets,  which  still  to  -  day, 
exercise  their  charm  alike  on  reader  and  spectator, 
especially  the  Greek  tragedies.  Whoever  accus- 
toms himself  to  look  aside  from  the  peculiarities 
of  the  old  models,  will  notice  with  real  joy  that 
the  skilful  tragic  poet  of  the  Athenians,  Sophocles, 
used  the  fundamental  laws  of  dramatic  construc- 
tion, with  enviable  certainty  and  shrewdness.  For 
development,  climax,  and  return  of  the  action,  he 
presents  us  a  model  seldom  reached. 

About  two  thousand  years  after  (Edipus  at 
Colonos,  Shakespeare,  the  second  mighty  genius 
which  gave  immortal  expression  to  dramatic  art, 
wrote  the  tragedy,  Romeo  and  Juliet.  He  created 
the  drama  of  the  Germanic  races.  His  treatment 
of  the  tragic,  his  regulation  of  the  action,  his 
manner  of  developing  character,  and  his  repre- 
sentation of  soul  experiences,  have  established  for 
the  introduction  of  the  drama,  and  for  the  first 
half  to  the  climax,  many  technical  laws  which 
still  guide  us. 

The  Germans  came  in  a  roundabout  way  to  a 
recognition  of  the  greatness  and  significance  of 
his  service.  The  great  German  poets,  easily  the 
next  models  after  which  we  have  to  fashion,  lived 
in  a  time  of  a  spirited  beginning  of  experiments 


8  INTRODUCTION. 

with  the  inheritance  of  the  old  past.  There  was 
lacking,  therefore,  to  the  technique  which  they 
inherited,  something  of  certainty  and  consistency 
in  effects ;  and  directly  because  the  beautiful  which 
they  discovered  has  been  infused  into  our  blood, 
we  are  bound,  in  our  work,  to  reject  many  things 
which  with  them  rested  upon  an  incomplete  or 
insecure  foundation. 

The  examples  brought  forward  in  the  following 
discussion  are  taken  from  Sophocles,  Shakespeare, 
Lessing,  Goethe,  and  Schiller,  for  it  has  seemed 
desirable  to  limit  examples  to  universally  known 
works. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   DRAMATIC   ACTION. 

I. 

THE   IDEA. 

In  the  soul  of  the  poet,  the  drama  gradually 
takes  shape  out  of  the  crude  material  furnished  by 
the  account  of  some  striking  event.  First  appear 
single  movements ;  internal  conflicts  and  personal 
resolution,  a  deed  fraught  with  consequence,  the 
collision  of  two  characters,  the  opposition  of  a  hero 
to  his  surroundings,  rise  so  prominently  above  their 
connection  with  other  incidents,  that  they  become 
the  occasion  for  the  transformation  of  other  mate- 
rial. This  transformation  goes  on  to  such  an  extent 
that  the  main  element,  vividly  perceived,  and  com- 
prehended in  its  entrancing,  soul-stirring  or  terrify- 
ing significance,  is  separated  from  all  that  casually 
accompanies  it,  and  with  single  supplementary, 
invented  elements,  is  brought  into  a  unifying  rela- 
tion of  cause  and  effect.  The  new  unit  which  thus 
arises  is  the  Idea  of  the  Drama.  This  is  the  center 
toward  which  further  independent  inventions  are 
directed,  like  rays.  This  idea  works  with  a  power 
similar  to  the  secret  power  of  crystallization. 
Through  this  are  unity  of  action,  significance  of 

Q 


io       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

characters,  and  at  last,  the  whole  structure  of  the 
drama  produced. 

How  ordinary  material  becomes  a  poetic  idea 
through  inspiration,  the  following  example  will 
show.  A  young  poet  of  the  last  century  reads  the 
following  notice  in  a  newspaper:  "Stuttgart,  Jan. 
n.  —  In  the  dwelling  of  the  musician,  Kritz,  were 
found,  yesterday,  his  oldest  daughter,  Louise,  and 
Duke  Blasius  von  Boiler,  major  of  dragoons,  lying 
dead  upon  the  floor.  The  accepted  facts  in  the 
case,  and  the  medical  examination  indicated  that 
both  had  come  to  their  deaths  by  drinking  poison. 
There  is  a  rumor  of  an  attachment  between  the  pair, 
which  the  major's  father,  the  well-known  President 
von  Boiler,  had  sought  to  break  off.  The  sad  fate 
of  the  young  woman,  universally  esteemed  on 
account  of  her  modest  demeanor,  awakens  the 
sympathy  of  all  people  of  sensibility." 

From  the  material  thus  afforded,  the  fancy  of 
the  poet,  aroused  by  sympathy,  fashions  the  charac- 
ter of  an  ardent  and  passionate  youth,  and  of  an 
innocent  and  susceptible  maiden.  The  contrast 
between  the  court  atmosphere,  from  which  the 
lover  has  emerged,  and  the  narrow  circle  of  a  little 
village  household,  is  vividly  felt.  The  hostile 
father  becomes  a  heartless,  intriguing  courtier.  An 
unavoidable  necessity  arises,  of  explaining  the 
frightful  resolution  of  a  vigorous  youth,  a  resolution 
apparently  growing  out  of  such  a  situation.  The 
creative  poet  finds  this  inner  connection  in  an  illu- 
sion which  the  father  has  produced  in  the  soul  of 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  n 

the  son,  in  a  suspicion  that  his  beloved  is  unfaith- 
ful. In  this  manner  the  poet  makes  the  account 
intelligible  to  himself  and  to  others ;  while  freely 
inventing,  he  introduces  an  internal  consistency. 
These  inventions  are,  in  appearance,  little  supple- 
mentary additions,  but  they  make  an  entirely  orig- 
inal production  which  stands  over  against  the 
original  occurrence  as  something  new,  and  has 
something  like  the  following  contents :  In  the 
breast  of  a  young  nobleman,  jealousy  toward  his 
beloved,  a  girl  of  the  middle  class,  has  been  so 
excited  by  his  father,  that  he  destroys  both  her 
and  himself  by  poison.  Through  this  remodeling, 
an  occurrence  in  real  life  becomes  a  dramatic 
idea.  From  this  time  forward,  the  real  occurrence 
is  unessential  to  the  poet.  The  place,  and  family 
name  are  lost  sight  of;  indeed,  whether  the  event 
happened  as  reported,  or  what  was  the  character 
of  the  victims,  and  of  their  parents,  or  their  rank, 
no  longer  matters  at  all ;  quick  perception  and  the 
first  activity  of  creative  power  have  given  to  the 
occurrence  a  universally  intelligible  meaning  and 
an  intrinsic  truth.  The  controlling  forces  of  the 
piece  are  no  longer  accidental,  and  to  be  found  in 
a  single  occurrence  ;  they  could  "enter  into  a 
hundred  cases,  and  with  the  accepted  characters 
and  the  assumed  connection,  the  outcome  would 
always  be  the  same. 

When  the  poet  has  once  thus  infused  his  own 
soul  into  the  material,  then  he  adopts  from  the  real 
account  some  things  which  suit  his  purpose  —  the 


12   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

title  of  the  father  and  of  the  son,  the  name  of  the 
bride,  the  business  of  her  parents,  perhaps  single 
traits  of  character  which  he  may  turn  to  account. 
Alongside  this  goes  further  creative  work  ;  the  chief 
characters  are  developed,  to  their  distinct  individu- 
alities;  accessory  figures  are  created, —  a  quarrel- 
some accomplice  of  the  father,  another  woman,  the 
opposite  of  the  beloved,  personality  of  the  parents  ; 
new  impulses  are  given  to  the  action,  and  all  these 
inventions  are  determined  and  ruled  by  the  idea  of 
the  piece. 

This  idea,  the  first  invention  of  the  poet,  the 
silent  soul  through  which  he  gives  life  to  the  mate- 
rial coming  to  him  from  external  sources,  does  not 
easily  place  itself  before  him  as  a  clearly  defined 
thought ;  it  has  not  the  colorless  clearness  of  an 
abstract  conception.  On  the  contrary,  the  peculiar- 
ity in  such  work  of  the  poet's  mind  is,  that  the  chief 
parts  of  the  action,  the  nature  of  the  chief  charac- 
ters, indeed  something  of  the  color  of  the  piece, 
glow  in  the  soul  at  the  same  time  with  the  idea, 
bound  into  an  inseparable  unity,  and  that  they  con- 
tinually work  like  a  human  being  producing  and 
expanding  in  every  direction.  It  is  possible,  of 
course,  that  the  poet's  idea,  however  securely  he 
bears  it  in  his  soul,  may  never,  during  the  process 
of  composition,  come  to  perfection  in  words,  and 
that  later,  through  reflection,  but  without  having 
formulated  it  even  for  himself,  he  sets  the  possession 
of  his  soul  into  the  stamped  coin  of  speech,  and 
comprehends  it  as  the  fundamental  thought  of  his 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  13 

drama.  It  is  possible,  indeed,  that  he  has  perceived 
the  idea  more  justly  according  to  the  rules  of  his 
art,  than  he  has  given  the  central  thought  of  his 
work  verbal  expression. 

If,  however,  it  is  inconvenient  and  often  difficult 
for  him  to  cast  the  idea  of  a  growing  play  into  a  for- 
mula, to  express  it  in  words,  yet  the  poet  will  do 
well,  even  in  the  beginning  of  his  work,  to  temper 
the  ardor  of  his  soul,  and  sharply  discriminating, 
judge  the  idea  according  to  the  essential  requisites 
of  the  drama.  It  is  instructive  for  a  stranger  to  a 
piece  to  seek  the  hidden  soul  in  the  complete  pro- 
duction, and  however  imperfect  this  may  possibly 
be,  give  the  thought  formal  expression.  Much  may 
be  recognized  in  this  way  that  is  characteristic  of 
single  poets.  For  example,  let  the  foundation  of 
Mary  Stuart  be,  —  "The  excited  jealousy  of  a 
queen  incites  to  the  killing  of  her  imprisoned 
rival;"  and  again  of  Love  and  Intrigue,  "The 
excited  jealousy  of  a  young  nobleman  incites  to  the 
killing  of  his  humble  beloved."  These  bare  formu- 
las will  be  taken  from  the  fulness  of  many-colored 
life  which  in  the  mind  of  the  creative  poet  is  con- 
nected with  the  idea;  yet  something  peculiar  will 
become  distinct  in  the  construction  of  both  pieces, 
in  addition ;  for  example,  that  the  poet  using  such  a 
frame  work  was  placed  under  the  necessity  of  com- 
posing in  advance  the  first  part  of  the  action,  which 
explains  the  origin  of  the  jealousy,  and  that  the 
impelling  force  in  the  chief  characters  becomes 
operative  just  in  the  middle  of  the  piece,  and  that 


14   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  first  acts  contain  preferably  the  endeavours  of 
the  accessory  characters,  to  excite  the  fatal  activity 
of  one  of  the  chief  characters.  It  will  be  further 
noticed  how  similar  in  ultimate  principle  is  the  con- 
struction and  motive  of  these  two  plays  of  Schiller, 
and  how  both  have  a  surprising  similarity  in  idea 
and  plan,  to  the  more  powerful  Otlicllo. 

The  material  which  is  transformed  through  the 
dramatic  idea,  is  either  invented  by  the  poet  spe- 
cially for  his  drama,  or  is  an  incident  related  from 
the  life  which  surrounds  him,  or  an  account  which 
history  offers,  or  the  contents  of  a  tradition,  or  novel, 
or  narrative  poem.  In  all  of  these  cases,  where  the 
poet  makes  use  of  what  is  at  hand,  it  has  already 
been  humanized  by  the  impress  of  an  idea.  Even 
in  the  above  supposed  newspaper  notice,  the  incipient 
remodeling  is  recognizable.  In  the  last  sentence, 
"There  is  a  rumor  of  an  attachment,"  etc.,  the 
reporter  makes  the  first  attempt  to  transform  the 
mere  fact  into  a  consistent  story,  to  explain  the 
tragic  occurrence,  to  bring  to  the  lovers  a  greater 
degree  of  interest,  so  that  a  more  attractive  mean- 
ing is  given  to  their  condition.  The  practice  of 
transformation,  through  which  consistency  and  a 
meaning  corresponding  to  the  demands  of  the  think- 
ing person  are  given  to  real  events,  is  no  preroga- 
tive of  the  poet.  Inclination  toward  this,  and  capa- 
bility for  it,  are  active  in  all  persons,  and  at  all  times. 
For  thousands  of  years  the  human  race  has  thus 
transposed  for  itself  life  in  heaven  and  on  earth ;  it 
has  abundantly  endowed  its  representations  of  the 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  15 

divine  with  human  attributes.  All  heroic  tradition 
has  sprung  from  such  a  transformation  of  impres- 
sions from  religious  life,  history,  or  natural  objects, 
into  poetic  ideas.  Even  now,  since  historic  culture 
prevails,  and  respect  for  the  real  relations  of  the 
great  events  of  the  world  has  risen  so  high,  this  ten- 
dency to  explain  occurrences  shows  itself  in  the 
greatest  as  well  as  in  the  least  matters.  In  every 
anecdote,  even  in  the  disagreeable  gossip  of  society, 
its  activity  is  manifest,  endeavoring,  even  if  what  is 
real  remains  unchanged,  to  present  vividly  and  with 
spirit  some  trait  of  narrow  life,  or  from  the  neces- 
sity of  the  raconteur,  to  make  himself  in  contrast 
with  others  more  surely  and  better  observed. 

Historical  material  is  already  brought  into  order 
through  some  idea,  before  the  poet  takes  possession 
of  it.  The  ideas  of  the  historian  are  not  at  all  poet- 
ical ;  but  they  have  a  specific  and  shaping  influence 
on  every  part  of  the  work  which  is  brought  through 
them  into  being.  Whoever  describes  the  life  of  a 
man,  whoever  makes  an  exposition  of  a  section  of 
past  time,  must  set  in  order  his  mass  of  material 
from  an  established  point  of  view,  must  sift  out  the 
unessential,  must  make  prominent  the  most  essen- 
tial. Still  more,  he  must  seek  to  comprehend  the 
contents  of  a  human  life  or  a  period  of  time ;  he 
must  take  pains  to  discover  ultimate  characteris- 
tics and  intimate  connection  of  events.  He  must 
also  know  the  connection  of  his  material  with  much 
that  is  external,  and  much  that  his  work  does  not 
present.  In  certain  cases,  indeed,  he  must  supplement 


16       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

what  has  been  delivered  to  him,  and  so  explain  the 
unintelligible,  that  its  probable  and  possible  meaning 
is  evident.  He  is  finally  directed  in  the  arrangement 
of  his  work,  by  the  laws  of  creation,  which  have 
many  things  in  common  with  the  laws  of  poetic 
composition.  Through  his  knowledge  and  his  art, 
he  may  from  crude  material  create  a  picture  excit- 
ing wonder,  and  produce  upon  the  soul  of  the  reader 
the  most  powerful  effect.  But  he  is  distinguished 
from  the  poet  by  this,  that  he  seeks  conscientiously 
to  understand  what  has  actually  occurred,  exactly 
as  it  was  presented  to  view,  and  that  the  inner  con- 
nection which  he  seeks  is  produced  by  the  laws  of 
nature  which  we  revere  as  divine,  eternal,  incompre- 
hensible. To  the  historian,  the  event  itself,  with  its 
significance  for  the  human  mind,  seems  of  most 
importance.  To  the  poet,  the  highest  value  lies  in 
his  own  invention ;  and  out  of  fondness  for  this,  he, 
at  his  convenience,  changes  the  actual  incident.  To 
the  poet,  therefore,  every  work  of  an  historical 
writer,  however  animated  it  may  be  through  the 
historical  idea  recognized  in  its  contents,  is  still 
only  raw  material,  like  a  daily  occurrence ;  and  the 
most  artistic  treatment  by  the  historian  is  useful  to 
the  poet,  only  so  far  as  it  facilitates  his  comprehen- 
sion of  what  has  really  happened.  If  the  poet  has, 
in  history,  found  his  interest  awakened  in  the  person 
of  the  martial  prince,  Wallenstein ;  if  he  perceives 
vividly  in  his  reading  a  certain  connection  between 
the  deeds  and  the  fate  of  the  man ;  if  he  is  touched 
or  shocked  by  single  characteristics  of  his  real  life, 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  17 

— then  there  begins  in  his  mind  the  process  of 
reconstruction,  so  that  he  brings  the  deeds  and  fall 
of  the  hero  into  perfectly  intelligible  and  striking 
connection,  and  he  even  so  transforms  the  character 
of  the  hero  as  is  desirable  for  a  touching  and  thrilling 
effect  of  the  action.  That  which  in  the  historical 
character  is  only  a  subordinate  trait,  now  becomes 
the  fundamental  characteristic  of  his  being;  the 
gloomy,  fierce  commander  receives  something  of  the 
poet's  own  nature;  he  becomes  a  high  minded,  dream- 
ing, reflecting  man.  Conformably  with  this  charac- 
ter, all  incidents  are  remodeled,  all  other  characters 
determined,  and  guilt  and  calamities  regulated. 
Through  such  idealization  arose  Schiller's  Wallen- 
stein,  a  figure  whose  enchanting  features  have  but 
little  in  common  with  the  countenance  of  the  his- 
torical Wallenstcin.  Indeed,  the  poet  will  have  to 
be  on  his  guard  lest,  in  his  invention,  there'  be  made 
to  appear  what  to  his  contemporaries  may  seem  the 
opposite  of  historical  truth.  How  much  the  later 
poet  may  be  limited  by  such  a  consideration,  will  be 
discussed  later. 

It  will  depend  on  the  personality  of  the  poet, 
whether  the  first  rapture  of  his  poetic  activity  is 
derived  from  the  enchanting  characteristics  of  man- 
kind, or  from  what  is  striking  in  real  destiny,  or 
from  the  really  interesting  in  the  color  of  the  time, 
which  he  finds  in  the  historical  record.  But  from 
the  moment  when  the  enjoyment  and  ardor  neces- 
sary to  his  production  begin,  he  proceeds,  indeed, 
with  unfettered  freedom,  however  faithfully  he 


i8   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

seems  to  himself  to  adhere  to  historical  material. 
He  transforms  all  available  material  into  dramatic 
forces.1  (See  Notes,  commencing  page  383.) 

Moreover,  when  the  poet  adopts  material  which 
has  already  been  put  in  order  more  or  less  perfectly 
according  to  the  laws  of  epic  construction,  as  heroic 
poem,  saga,  artistically  finished  narrative,  what  is 
prepared  for  another  species  of  poetry,  is  for  him 
only  material.  Let  it  not  be  thought  that  an  event 
with  the  persons  involved,  which  has  already  been 
ennobled  through  an  art  so  nearly  allied,  has  for 
that  reason  a  better  preparation  for  the  drama.  On 
the  contrary,  there  is  between  the  great  creations  of 
the  epic  which  shadow  forth  occurrences  and  heroes 
as  they  stand  near  each  other,  and  dramatic  art 
which  represents  actions  and  characters  as  they  are 
developed  through  each  other,  a  profound  opposi- 
tion which  it  is  difficult  for  the  creative  artist  to 
manage.  Even  the  poetic  charm  which  these 
created  images  exercise  upon  his  soul,  may  render 
it  the  more  difficult  for  him  to  transform  them 
according  to  the  vital  requisites  of  his  art.  The 
Greek  drama  struggled  as  severely  with  its  material, 
which  was  taken  from  the  epic,  as  the  historic  poet 
of  our  time  must,  with  the  transformation  of  histor- 
ical ideas  into  dramatic. 

To  transform  material  artistically,  according  to  a 
unifying  idea,  means  to  idealize  it.  The  characters 
of  the  poet,  in  contrast  with  the  images  from  reality 
used  as  material,  and  according  to  a  convenient 
craftsman's  expression,  are  called  ideals. 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  19 

II. 

WHAT    IS    DRAMATIC  ? 
The   dramatic   includes    those    emotions   of  the 


soul  which  steel  themselves  to  will,  and  to  do, (and 
those  emotions  of  the  sotal  which  are  aroused  by  a 
deed  or  course  of  action)  also  the  inner  processes 
which  man  experiences  from  the  first  glow  of  per- 
ception to  passionate  desire  and  action,  as  well  as 
the  influences  which  one's  own  and  others'  deeds 
exert  upon  the  soul ;  also  the  rushing  forth  of  will 
power  from  the  depths  of  /nan's  soul  toward  the 
external  world,  and  the  influx  of  fashioning  influ- 
ences from  the  outer  world  into  man's  inmost  being; 
also  the  coming  into  being  of  a  deed,  and  its  conse- 
quences on  the  human  soul.  I 
T  U^HsLi,1^  C^t-t^-cnst  ,^\ 

An  action,  in  itself,  is  notf  dramatic.  Passionate 
feeling,  in  itself,  is  not  dramatic.  ,  Not  the  presen- 
tation of  a  passion  for  itself,  but  of  a  passion  which 
leads  to  action  is  the  business  of  dramatic  art;  not 
the  presentation  of  an  event  for  itself,  but  tor  its 
effect  on  a  human  soul  is  the  dramatist's  mission. 
The  exposition  of  passionate  emotions  as  such,  is  in 
the  province  of  the  lyric  poet ;  the  depicting  of 
thrilling  events  is  the  task  of  the  epic  poet. 

The  two  ways  in  which  the  dramatic  expresses 
itself  are,  of  course,  not  fundamentally  different. 
Even  while  a  man  is  under  stress,  and  laboring  to  turn 
his  inmost  soul  toward  the  external,  his  surround- 
ings exert  a  stimulating  or  repressing  influence  on 


20       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

his  passionate  emotions.  And,  again,  while  what 
has  been  done  exerts  a  reflex  influence  upon  him,  he 
4-^does  not  remain  merely  receptive,  but  gains  new 
impulses  and  transformations.  Yet,  there  is  a  dif- 
ference in  these  closely  connected  processes.  The 
first,  the  inward  struggle  of  man  toward  a  deed,  has 
always  the  highest  charm.  The  second  stimulates 
to  more  external  emotion,  a  more  violent  co-opera- 
tion of  different  forces;  almost  all  that  satisfies  curi- 
osity belongs  to  this  ;  and  yet,  however  indispensa- 
ble it  is  to  the  drama,  it  is  principally  a  satisfying 
of  excited  suspense  ;  and  the  impatience  of  the 
hearer,  if  he  has  creative  power,  easily  runs  in 
advance,  seeking  a  new  vehement  agitation  in  the 
soul  of  the  hero.  What  is  occurring  chains  the 
attention  most,  not  what,  as  a  thing  of  the  past,  has 
excited  wonder. 

Since  the  dramatic  art  presents  men  as  their 
inmost  being  exerts  an  influence  on  the  external,  or 
as  they  are  affected  by  external  influences,  it  must 
logically  use  the  means  by  which  it  can  make  intel- 
ligible to  the  auditor  these  processes  of  man's 
nature.  These  means  are  speech,  tone,  gesture.  It 
must  bring  forward  its  characters  as  speaking,  sing- 
ing, gesticulating.  Poetry  uses  also  as  accessories 
in  her  representations,  music  and  scenic  art. 

In  close  fellowship  with  her  sister  arts,  with  vig- 
orous, united  effort  she  sends  her  images  into  the 
receptive  souls  of  those  who  are  at  the  same  time 
auditors  and  spectators.  V  The  impressions  which  she 
produces  are  called  effects.  These  dramatic  effects 

" 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  21 

have  a  very  peculiar  character ;  they  differ  not  only 
from  the  effects  of  the  plastic  arts  through  the  force 
of  emphasis  and  the  progressive  and  regular  grada- 
tion of  the  chosen  movement,  but  also  from  the 
powerful  effects  of  music,  in  this,  that  they  flow  in 
at  the  same  time  through  two  senses,  and  excite 
with  rapture  not  only  emotional,  but  also  intel- 
lectual activity.  Q 

From  what  rlas  already  been  said,  it  is  clear  that 
the  characters,  presented  according  to  the  demands 
of  dramatic  art,  must  have  something  unusual  in 
their  nature  which  may  distinguish  them  not  only 
from  the  innumerable,  more  manifold,  and  more  com- 
plicated beings  whose  images  real  life  impresses  on 
the  soul,  but  also  from  the  poetic  images  which  are 
rendered  effective  through  other  forms  of  art,  the 
epic,  the  romance,  the  lyric.  The  dramatis  persona 
must  represent  human  nature,  not  as  it  is  aroused  and 
mirrored  in  its  surroundings,  active  and  full  of  feel- 
ing, but  as  a  grand  and  passionately  excited  inner 
power  striving  to  embody  itself  in  a  deed,  trans- 
forming and  guiding  the  being  and  conduct  of 
others.  Man,  in  the  drama,  must  appear  under 
powerful  restraint,  excitement,  transformation.  Spe- 
cially must  there  be  represented  in  him  in  full 
activity  those  peculiarities  which  come  effectively 
into  conflict  with  other  men,  force  of  sentiment, 
violence  of  will,  achievement  hindered  through  pas- 
sionate desire,  just  those  peculiarities  which  make 
character  and  are  intelligible  through  character.  It 
thus  happens,  not  without  reason,  that  in  the  terms 


22       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

of  art,  the  people  of  a  drama  are  called  characters. 
But  the  characters  which  are  brought  forward  by 
poetry  and  her  accessory  arts,  can  evince  their  inner 
life  only  as  participants  in  an  event  or  occurrence, 
the  course  and  internal  connection  of  which  becomes 
apparent  to  the  spectator  through  the  dramatic  pro- 
cesses in  the  soul  of  the  poet.  This  course  of  events, 
when  it  is  arranged  according  to  the  demands  of 
dramatic  art,  is  called  the  action? 

Each  participant  in  the  dramatic  action  has  a 
definite  appointment  with  reference  to  the  whole  ; 
for  each,  an  exact,  circumscribed  personality  is  nec- 
essary, which  must  be  so  constituted  that  so  much 
of  it  as  has  a  purpose  may  be  conveniently  per- 
ceived by  the  auditor,  and  what  is  common  to  man 
and  what  is  peculiar  to  this  character  may  be  effect- 
ively represented  by  the  actor  by  means  of  his  art. 

Those  spiritual  processes  which  have  been  indi- 
cated above  as  dramatic,  are,  of  course,  not  perfectly 
apparent  in  every  person  represented,  specially  on 
the  later  stage,  which  is  fond  of  bringing  forward  a 
greater  number  of  characters  as  participants  in  the 
action.  But  the  chief  characters  must  abound  in 
them  ;  only  when  these,  in  an  appropriate  manner, 
exhibit  their  real  nature  with  power  and  fulness, 
even  to  the  inmost  recesses  of  their  hearts,  can  the 
drama  produce  great  effects.  If  this  last  dramatic 
element  is  not  apparent  in  the  leading  characters,  is 
not  forced  upon  the  hearer,  the  drama  is  lifeless  ; 
it  is  an  artificial,  empty  form,  without  corresponding 
contents  ;  and  the  pretentious  co-operation  of  several 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  23 

combined  arts  makes  this  hollowncss  the  more 
painful. 

Along  with  the  chief  characters,  the  subordinate 
persons  participate  in  this  dramatic  life,  each  accord- 
ing to  the  space  occupied  in  the  piece.  It  does  not 
entirely  disappear,  even  in  the  least  role,  m  those 
figures  which  with  a  few  words  can  show  their  par- 
ticipation ;  the  attendant  or  the  messenger,  owes  it 
as  a  duty,  at  least  to  the  actor's  art,  by  costume, 
manner  of  speech,  deportment,  gesture,  posture  at 
entering,  to  represent  in  a  manner  suitable  to  the 
piece  what  he  personates,  so  far  as  externals  will  do 
it,  even  if  meagcrly  and  modestly. 

But  since  the  representation  of  these  mental 
processes,  which  are  the  prerogative  and  requisite  of 
the  drama,  requires  time,  and  since  the  poet's  time 
for  the  producing  of  effects  is  limited  according  to 
the  custom  of  his  people,  it  follows  that  the  event 
represented  must  bring  the  chief  characters  much 
more  boldly  into  prominence  than  is  necessary  in 
an  actual  occurrence  which  is  brought  about  through 
the  general  activity  of  many  persons. 

The  capability  of  producing  dramatic  effects  is 
not  accorded  to  the  human  race  in  every  period  of 
its  existence.  Dramatic  poetry  appears  later  than 
epic  and  lyric ;  its  blossoming  among  any  people 
depends  on  the  fortunate  conjunction  of  many 
impelling  forces,  but  specially  on  this,  that  in  the 
actual  life  of  the  contemporary  public,  the  corre- 
sponding mental  processes  are  frequently  and  fully 
seen.  This  is  first  possible  when  the  people  have 


24       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

reached  a  certain  degree  of  development,  when  men 
'  have  become  accustomed  to  observe  themselves  and 
others  critically  under  the  impulse  to  a  deed,  when 
'•  speech  has  acquired  a  high  degree  of  flexibility  and 
a  clever  dialect ;  when  the  individual  is  no  longer 
bound  by  the  interdict  of  tradition  and  external 
force,  ancient  formula  and  popular  custom,  but  is 
able  more  freely  to  fashion  his  own  life.  We  dis- 
tinguish two  periods  in  which  the  dramatic  has  come 
to  the  human  race.  This  intensification  of  the 
human  soul  appeared  for  the  first  time  in  the  ancient 
world,  about  500  years  before  Christ,  when  the 
youthful  consciousness  of  the  free  Hellenic  commu- 
nity awoke  with  the  bloom  of  commerce,  with  free- 
dom of  speech,  and  with  the  participation  of  the 
citizen  in  affairs  of  state.  The  dramatic  spirit 
appeared  the  second  time,  in  the  newer  family  of 
European  peoples,  after  the  Reformation,  at  the 
same  time  with  the  deepening  of  mind  and  spirit, 
which  was  produced  through  the  sixteenth  century, 
not  only  among  the  Germans,  but  also  among  the 
Latin  races,  but  by  different  methods.  Centuries 
before  the  inception  of  this  mighty  effort  of  the 
human  spirit,  not  only  the  Hellenes,  but  the  various 
branches  of  migrating  nations,  had  already  been 
developing  the  rudiments  of  a  speech  and  art  of 
pantomime  which  was  seeking  the  dramatic.  There, 
as  here,  great  festivals  in  honor  of  the  gods  had 
occasioned  the  song  in  ceremonial  costume,  and  the 
playing  of  popular  masques.  But  the  entrance  of 
dramatic  power  into  these  lyric  or  epic  exhibitions, 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION. 

was  in  both  cases  a  wonderfully  rapid,  almost 
sudden  one.  Both  times,  the  dramatic  was  devel- 
oped, from  the  moment  it  became  alive,  with  a 
marvellous  power  to  a  beauty  which,  through  the 
later  centuries,  it  has  not  easily  reached.  Immedi- 
ately after  the  Persian  wars,  came  yEschylus, 
Sophocles,  and  Euripides  in  close  succession. 
Shortly  after  the  Reformation,  there  appeared 
among  the  European  nations,  first  in  England  and 
Spain,  and  later  in  France,  last  of  all  among  the 
Germans,  left  behind  through  helpless  weakness, 
the  highest  popular  florescence  of  this  rare  art. 

But  there  is  this  difference  between  the  begin- 
ning of  the  dramatic  in  the  old  world  and  in  the 
new :  the  drama  of  antiquity  originated  in  the  lyric 
choral  song ;  that  of  the  newer  world  rests  on  the 
epic  enjoyment  in  the  exhibition  of  important 
events.  In  the  former,  from  the  beginning,  the 
passionate  excitement  of  feeling  was  the  charm ;  in 
the  latter,  the  witnessing  of  thrilling  incident. 
This  difference  of  origin  has  powerfully  influenced 
the  form  and  meaning  of  the  drama  in  its  artistic 
development ;  and  however  eminent  the  contribu- 
tions of  art  were  in  both  periods,  they  retained 
something  essentially  different. 

But  even  after  dramatic  life  had  arisen  among 
the  people,  the  highest  effects  of  poetry  remained 
the  prerogative  of  a  few,  and  since  that  time  dra- 
matic power  has  not  been  accorded  to  every  poet ; 
indeed,  it  does  not  pervade  with  sufficient  power 
every  work  even  of  the  greatest  poets.  We  may 


26       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

conclude  that  even  in  Aristotle's  time,  those  stately 
plays  with  a  simple  action,  with  no  characteristic 
desires  on  the  part  of  the  leading  persons,  with 
loosely  connected  choruses,  had,  possibly,  lyric, 
but  not  dramatic  beauty.  And  among  the  historic 
plays  which,  year  after  year,  are  written  in  Ger- 
many, the  greater  part  contains  little  more  than 
mangled  history  thrown  into  dialogue,  some  epic 
material  thrown  into  scenic  form,  at  all  events  noth- 
ing of  dramatic  character.  Indeed,  single  poems  of 
the  greater  poets  suffer  from  the  same  lack.  Only 
two  celebrated  dramas  need  here  be  named.  The 
Hecuba  of  Euripides  shows,  until  toward  the  end, 
only  a  little  progress,  and  that  entirely  unsatisfac- 
tory, from  the  excited  disposition,  toward  a  deed ; 
first  in  the  final  conflict  against  Polymnestor  does 
Hecuba  exhibit  a  passion  that  becomes  a  determi- 
nation ;  here  the  dramatic  suspense  first  begins  ;  up  to 
this  point  there  was  evoked  from  the  briefly  sketched 
and  pathetic  circumstances  of  the  chief  characters, 
only  lyric  complaints.  And  again,  in  Shakespeare's 
Henry  V.,  in  which  the  poet  wished  to  compose  a 
patriotic  piece  according  to  the  old  epic  customs  of 
his  stage,  with  military  parades,  fights,  little  epi- 
sodes, there  is  apparent  neither  in  the  chief  char- 
acters, nor  in  their  accessories,  any  deeply  laid  foun- 
dation for  their  deeds,  in  a  dramatically  presenta- 
ble motive.  In  short  waves,  wish  and  demand  rip- 
ple along ;  the  actions  themselves  are  the  chief 
thing.  Patriotism  must  excite  a  lively  interest,  as 
in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  among  his  people,  it 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  27 

always  did  abundantly.  For  us,  the  play  is  less 
presentable  than  the  parts  of  Henry  VI.  On  the 
contrary,  to  name  only  a  few  of  one  poet's  pieces, 
Macbeth,  as  far  as  the  banquet  scene,  the  whole  of 
Coriolanus,  Othello,  Romeo  and  Juliet,  Julius  Casar, 
Lear,  up  to  the  hovel  scene,  and  Richard  III.,  con- 
tain the  most  powerful  dramatic  elements  that  have 
ever  been  created  by  a  Teuton  or  a  Saxon. 
I  From  the  inner  struggles  of  the  leading  charac- 
ters, the  judgment  of  contemporaries,  as  a  rule,  or  at 
least  that  of  the  immediately  following  time,  rates 
the  significance  of  a  piece.  Where  this  life  is  want- 
ing, no  skill  in  treatment,  no  attractive  material,  is 
able  to  keep  the  work  alive.  Where  this  dramatic 
life  is  present,  even  later  times  regard  with  great 
respect  a  poetical  composition  and  gladly  overlook 
its  shortcomings.  .) 

III. 

UNITY  OF   ACTION. 

r 

By  action  is  meant,  an  event  or  occurrence, 
arranged  according  to  a  controlling  idea,  and  hav- 
ing its  meaning  made  apparent  by  the  characters. 
It  is  composed  of  many  elements,  and  consists  in  a 
number  of  dramatic  efficients  (momente},  which 
become  effective  one  after  the  other,  according  to 
a  regular  arrangement.  The  action  of  the  serious 
drama  must  possess  the  following  qualities : 

//  must  present  complete  unity. 

This  celebrated  law  has  undergone  a  very  differ- 


28       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

ent  application  with  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  with 
the  Spanish  and  French,  with  Shakespeare  and  the 
Germans,  which  has  been  occasioned  partly  by 
those  learned  in  art,  partly  by  the  character  of  the 
stage.  The  restriction  of  its  claims  through  the 
French  classics,  and  the  strife  of  the  Germans  with 
the  three  unities,  of  place,  of  time,  and  of  action, 
have  for  us  only  a  literary-historical  interest.3 

No  dramatic  material,  however  perfectly  its  con- 
nections with  other  events  have  been  severed,  is 
independent  of  something  presupposed.  These  in- 
dispensable presupposed  circumstances  must  be  so  far 
presented  to  the  hearer,  in  the  opening  scenes,  that 
he  may  first  survey  the  groundwork  of  the  piece, 
not  in  detail,  indeed,  lest  the  field  of  the  action 
itself,  be  limited ;  then  immediately,  time,  people, 
place,  establishment  of  suitable  relations  between 
the  chief  persons  who  appear,  and  the  unavoidable 
threads  which  come  together  in  these,  from  what- 
ever has  been  left  outside  the  action.  When,  for 
instance,  in  Love  and  Intrigue,  an  already  exist- 
ing love  affair  forms  the  groundwork,  the  hearer 
must  be  given  a  sharp  informing  glance  into  this  rela- 
tion of  the  two  leading  characters,  and  into  the  fam- 
ily life  from  which  the  tragedy  is  to  be  developed. 
Moreover,  in  the  case  of  historical  material,  which 
is  furnished  by  the  vast  and  interminable  connec- 
tions of  the  great  events  of  the  world,  this  exposi- 
tion of  what  has  gone  before  is  no  easy  undertaking ; 
and  the  poet  must  take  heed  that  he  simplify  it  as 
much  as  possible. 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  29 

From  this  indispensable  introduction  the  begin- 
ning of  the  impassioned  action  must  arise,  like  the 
first  notes  of  a  melody  from  the  introductory 
chords.  This  first  stir  of  excitement,  this  stimu- 
lating impulse,  is  of  great  importance  for  the  effect 
of  the  drama,  and  will  be  discussed  later.  The  end  of 
the  action  must,  also,  appear  as  the  intelligible  and 
inevitable  result  of  the  entire  course  of  the  action, 
the  conjunction  of  forces ;  and  right  here,  the  inher- 
ent necessity  must  be  keenly  felt  ;  the  close  must, 
however,  represent  the  complete  termination  of 
the  strife  and  excited  conflicts. 

Within  these  limits,  the  action  must  move  for- 
ward with  uniform  consistency.  This  internal ' 
consistency  is  produced  by  representing  an  event 
which  follows  another,  as  an  effect  of  which  that 
other  is  the  evident  cause ;  let  that  which  occa- 
sions, be  the  logical  cause  of  occurrences,  and  the 
new  scenes  and  events  be  conceived  as  proba- 
ble, and  generally  understood  results  of  previous 
actions ;  or  let  that  which  is  to  produce  an  effect, 
be  a  generally  comprehensible  peculiarity  of  a 
character  already  made  known.  If  it  is  unavoid- 
able that,  during  the  course  of  events,  new  incidents 
appear,  unexpected  to  the  auditor,  or  very  surpris- 
ing, these  must  be  explained  imperceptibly,  but 
perfectly,  through  what  has  preceded.  This  laying 
the  foundation  of  the  drama  is  called,  assigning  the 
motive  (motiviren).  Through  the  motives,  the 
elements  of  the  action  are  bound  into  an  artistic, 
connected  whole.  This  binding  together  of  inci- 


30       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

dents  by  the  free  creation  of  a  causative  connec* 
tion,  is  the-  distinguishing  characteristic  of  this 
species  of  art.  Through  this  linking  together  of 
incidents,  dramatic  idealization  is  effected. 

Let  the  remodeling  of  a  narrative  into  a  dramatic 
action  serve  as  an  example.  There  lived  in  Verona 
two  noble  families,  in  enmity  and  feuds  of  long 
standing.  As  chance  would  have  it,  the  son  of  one 
family,  together  with  his  companions,  play  the  pre- 
sumptuous trick  of  thrusting  themselves  disguised 
into  a  masked  ball,  given  by  the  chief  of  the  other 
house.  At  this  ball  the  intruder  beholds  the  daugh- 
ter of  his  enemy,  and  in  both  arises  a  reckless  pas- 
sion. They  determine  upon  a  clandestine  marriage 
and  are  wedded  by  the  father  confessor  of  the 
maiden.  Then  fate  directs  that  the  new  bridegroom 
is  betrayed  into  a  conflict  with  the  cousin  of  his 
bride,  and  because  he  has  slain  him  in  the  duel,  is 
banished  from  his  country  by  the  prince  of  the  land, 
under  penalty  of  death.  Meantime  a  distinguished 
suitor  has  visited  the  parents  to  sue  for  the  hand  of 
the  newly  married  wife.  The  father  disregards  the 
despairing  entreaties  of  his  daughter,  and  appoints 
the  day  for  the  marriage.  In  these  fearful  circum- 
stances, the  young  woman  receives  from  her  priest, 
a  sleep-potion  which  shall  give  her  the  appearance 
of  death;  the  priest  undertakes  to  remove  her  pri- 
vately from  the  coffin  and  communicate  her  embar- 
rassing situation  to  her  distant  husband.  But  again 
an  unfortunate  chance  directs  that  the  husband,  in  a 
foreign  land,  is  informed  of  the  death  of  his  wife, 


THE   DRAMATIC   ACTION.  31 

before  the  messenger  of  the  priest  arrives.  He  has- 
tens, in  secret,  back  to  his  native  city,  and  forces  his 
way  into  the  vault,  where  lies  the  body  of  his  wife. 
Unfortunately,  he  meets  there  the  man  destined  by 
her  parents  to  be  her  bridegroom,  kills  him,  and 
upon  the  coffin  of  his  beloved,  drinks  the  fatal 
poison.  The  loved  one  awakes,  sees  her  dying  hus- 
band, and  stabs  herself  with  his  dagger.* 

This  narrative  is  a  simple  account  of  a  striking 
occurrence.  The  fact,  that  all  this  so  happened,  is 
told ;  how  and  why  it  so  came  about,  does  not  mat- 
ter. The  sequence  of  narrated  incidents  possesses 
no  close  connection.  Chance,  the  caprice  of  fate, 
an  unaccountable  conjunction  of  unfortunate  forces, 
occasions  the  progress  of  events  and  the  catastrophe. 
Indeed,  just  this  striking  sport  of  chance  is  what 
gives  enjoyment.  Such  a  material  appears  specially 
unfavorable  for  the  drama ;  and  yet  a  great  poet  has 
made  from  it  one  of  his  most  beautiful  plays. 

The  facts  have  remained,  on  the  whole,  un- 
changed; only  their  connection  has  become  different. 
The  task  of  the  poet  was  not  to  present  the  facts  to 
us,  on  the  stage,  but  to  make  them  perceptible  in 
the  feeling,  desire,  and  action  of  his  persons,  to 
make  them  more  evident,  to  develop  them  in  accord- 
ance with  probability  and  reason.  He  had,  in  the 
first  place,  to  set  forth  what  was  naturally  prereq- 
uisite to  the  action ;  the  brawls  in  an  Italian  city, 
in  a  time  when  swords  were  carried,  and  combative- 
ness  quickly  laid  hand  to  weapon,  the  leaders  of 
both  parties,  the  ruling  power  which  had  trouble  to 


32   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

restrain  the  restless  within  proper  limits ;  then  the 
determination  of  the  Capulets  to  give  a  banquet. 
Then  he  must  represent  the  merry  conceit  which 
brought  Romeo  and  his  attendants  into  the  Capu- 
lets' house.  This  exciting  impulse,  the  beginning 
of  the  action,  must  not  appear  an  accident ;  it  must 
be  accounted  for  from  the  characters.  Therefore  it 
was  necessary  to  introduce  the  companions  of 
Romeo,  fresh,  in  uncontrolled,  youthful  spirits,  play- 
ing with  life.  To  this  necessity  for  establishing 
motives,  Mercutio  owes  his  existence.  In  contrast 
with  his  mad  companions,  the  poet  had  fashioned 
the  dejected  Romeo,  whose  nature,  even  before  his 
entrance  into  the  excited  action,  must  express  its 
amorous  passion.  Hence  his  vagaries  about  Rosa- 
lind. This  availed  to  make  probable  the  awakening 
passion  of  the  lovers.  For  this,  the  masque-scene 
and  the  balcony-scene  were  constructed.  Every 
enchantment  of  poetry  is  here  used  to  the  greatest 
purpose,  to  make  apparent,  conceivable  and  as  a 
matter  of  course,  that  henceforward  the  sweet  pas- 
sion of  the  lovers  determines  their  lives. 

The  accessory  figures,  which  enter  into  the  piece 
from  this  point,  must  forward  the  complication,  and 
aid  in  giving  motive  toward  the  tragic  outcome. 
For  the  narrative,  it  was  sufficient  that  a  priest  per- 
formed the  marriage  rites,  and  gave  direction  to  the 
unfortunate  intrigue ;  -such  aids  have  always  been  at 
hand ;  as  soon,  however,  as  he  himself  has  stepped 
upon  the  stage,  and  by  his  words  has  entered  the 
action,  he  must  receive  a  personality  which  accounts 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  33 

for  all  that  follows ; — he  must  be  good-hearted  and 
sympathetic,  and  through  his  goodness  of  heart, 
merit  full  confidence ;  he  must  be  unpracticed,  and 
inclined  to  quiet  artifices  as  frequently  the  better 
priests  of  the  Italian  church  are,  in  order  to  venture 
later,  the  doubtful  play  of  death  for  his  penitent. 
Thus  originated  Laurence. 

After  the  wedding,  the  unfortunate  affair  with 
Tybalt  comes  into  the  story.  Here  the  dramatic 
poet  had  special  motive  in  taking  from  the  charac- 
ter entering  so  suddenly,  all  that  was  merely  casual. 
It  could  not  suffice  for  him  to  introduce  Tybalt  as  a 
hot-headed  brawler;  without  letting  the  spectator 
see  his  purpose,  he  must  lay  the  foundation  in  what 
had  gone  before,  for  the  peculiar  hatred  toward 
Romeo  and  his  companions.  Hence  the  little  side 
scene  at  the  masked  ball,  in  which  Tybalt's  anger 
flames  up  at  the  intrusion  of  Romeo.  And  in  this 
scene  itself,  the  poet  had  to  bring  to  bear  the 
strongest  motive,  to  compel  Romeo  to  engage  in 
the  duel.  Mercutio  must  first  be  slain  for  this 
reason,  and  for  the  further  purpose  of  heightening 
the  tragic  power  of  the  scene,  and  accounting  for 
the  wrath  of  the  prince. 

To  send  Romeo  immediately  into  banishment,  as 
is  done  in  the  narrative,  would  be  impossible  in  the 
drama.  To  show  the  spectator  that  the  loving  pair 
were  bound  inseparably  to  each  other,  there  was  the 
most  pressing  necessity  to  give  to  their  excited  pas- 
sion the  deepest  intensity.  How  the  poet  succeeded 
in  this  is  known  to  all.  The  scene  on  the  marriage 


34       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

eve  is  the  climax  of  the  action  ;  and  by  poetic  elab- 
oration, which  need  not  be  explained  here,  it  arises 
to  the  highest  beauty.  But  this  scene  was  neces- 
sary on  other  grounds.  Juliet's  character  renders 
necessary  a  rising  into  what  is  noble.  It  must  be 
shown  that  the  lovely  heroine  is  capable  of  magnif- 
icent emotion,  of  mighty  passion  in  order  that  her 
later,  despairing  determination  may  be  found  con- 
sistent with  her  nature.  Her  marvellous  inward 
conflict  over  Tybalt's  death  and  Romeo's  banish- 
ment must  precede  the  wedding  night,  to  impart  to 
her  nuptial  longing  the  beautifully  pathetic  element 
which  increases  the  interest  in  this  always  delicate 
scene.  But  even  the  possibility  of  this  scene  must 
be  made  clear.  Its  accessory  persons,  Friar  Lau- 
rence and  the  nurse,  are  again  significant.  The 
character  of  the  nurse,  one  of  Shakespeare's  unsur- 
passable inventions,  is,  likewise,  not  fashioned  acci- 
dentally ;  just  as  she  is,  she  is  a  suitable  accomplice ; 
and  she  makes  explicable  Juliet's  inward  withdrawal 
from  her  and  the  catastrophe. 

Immediately  after  her  wedding  night,  the  com- 
mand is  given  to  Juliet  to  be  married  to  Paris.  That 
the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  wealthy  Capulet  would 
find  a  distinguished  suitor,  and  that  her  father, — foi 
whose  hot-headedness  a  sufficient  ground  has  already 
been  laid, — would  exercise  harsh  compulsion  in  the 
matter,  would  be  conceded  by  the  hearer  without 
further  preparation,  as  probable  and  a  matter  of 
course.  But  it  is  a  matter  of  much  consequence  to 
the  dramatist,  to  lay  beforehand  the  foundation  for 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  35 

this  important  event.  Already,  before  the  marriage 
of  Juliet,  he  has  Paris  receive  her  father's  promise ; 
he  would  throw  this  dark  shadow  upon  the  great 
love  scene ;  and  he  would  account  right  distinctly, 
and  to  the  common  understanding  for  the  approach- 
ing calamity. 

Now  the  fate  of  the  loving  pair  has  been  put  into 
the  weak  hands  of  Friar  Laurence.  Up  to  this 
point,  the  drama  has  carefully  excluded  every 
intrusion  of  any  chance.  Even  to-  the  most  minute 
accessory  fact,  all  is  accounted  for  by  the  kind  of 
characters.  Now  a  tremendous  destiny  is  weighing 
down  upon  two  unfortunates  :  spilled  blood,  deadly 
family  hate,  a  clandestine  marriage,  banishment, 
a  new  wooing, —  all  this  is  pressing  upon  the  hearer's 
sensibility  with  a  certain  compulsion.  The  intro- 
duction of  little  explanatory  motives  is  no  longer 
effective,  and  no  longer  necessary.  Now  the  strata- 
gem of  the  stupid  visionary  priest  can  be  thwarted 
by  an  accident;  for  the  feeling  that  it  was  des- 
perate and  presumptuous  in  the  highest  degree,  to 
expose  a  living  person  to  the  incalculable  chances 
of  a  sleep -potion  and  burial,  has  become  so  strong 
in  the  hearer's  mind,  that  he  already  considers  an 
unhappy  result  as  probable. 

Thus  the  catastrophe  is  introduced  and  given  a 
foundation.  But  that  the  hope  of  a  happy  outcome 
may  entirely  vanish  from  the  mind  of  the  spectator, 
and  that  the  inherent  necessity  of  ruin  may  yet  at 
the  last  moment  overtop  the  foreboding  of  unavoid- 


36       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

able  fatalities  in  the  burial  vault,  Romeo  must  slay 
Paris  before  the  tomb. 

The  death  of  this  stranger  is  the  last  force  fur- 
thering the  sad  end.  of  the  lovers.  Even  when 
Juliet  now  in  a  fortunate  moment  awakes,  her  path 
and  Romeo's  is  so  overflowed  with  blood,  that  any 
good  fortune,  or  even  life,  has  become  improbable 
to  them. 

The  task  undertaken  here  has  been  only  to  point 
out  in  a  few  chief  particulars  the  contrast  between 
inner  dramatic  unification  and  epic  narration.  The 
piece  contains  still  an  abundance  of  other  motives ; 
and  even  the  minute  details  are  so  dovetailed  and 
riveted  as  to  evince  the  dramatist's  special  pur- 
pose. 

The  internal  unity  of  a  dramatic  action  is  not 
secured  merely  by  making  a  succession  of  events 
appear  as  the  deeds  and  sufferings  of  the  same  hero. 
No  great  fundamental  law  of  dramatic  creation  is 
more  frequently  violated,  even  by  great  poets,  than 
this  one ;  and  this  disregard  has  always  interfered 
with  the  effects  of  even  the  power  of  genius.  The 
Athenian  stage  suffered  on  this  account ;  and  Aris- 
totle attempted  to  meet  the  evil,  when  in  his  firm 
way  he  said:  "The  action  is  the  first  and  most 
important  thing,  the  characters  only  second;"  and, 
"The  action  is  not  given  unity  by  being  made  to 
concern  only  one  person."  Especially,  we  later 
ones,  who  are  most  frequently  attracted  by  the 
charm  of  historical  material,  have  urgent  reason  to 
cling  to  the  law,  that  union  about  a  person  alone 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  37 

does  not  suffice  to  gather  and  bind  the  events  into 
unity. 

It  still  frequently  happens  that  a  poet  undertakes 
to  present  the  life  of  an  heroic  prince,  as  he  is  at 
variance  with  his  vassals,  as  he  wages  war  with  his 
neighbors  and  the  church,  and  is  again  reconciled  to 
them,  and  as  he  finally  perishes  in  one  of  these  con- 
flicts; the  poet  distributes  the  principal  moving  forces 
of  the  historical  life  among  the  five  acts  and  three 
hours  of  the  acting  play,  makes  in  speech  and  re- 
sponse an  exposition  of  political  interests  and  party 
standpoints,  interweaves  well  or  ill  a  love  episode, 
and  thinks  to  have  changed  the  historical  picture 
into  a  poetic  one.  He  is  positively  a  weak-hearted 
destroyer  of  history,  and  no  priest  of  his  proud  god- 
dess. What  he  has  produced  is  not  history,  and 
not  drama.  He  has,  sure  enough,  yielded  to  some 
of  the  demands  of  his  art  ;  he  has  omitted  weighty 
events  which  did  not  suit  his  purpose  ;  he  has  fash- 
ioned the  character  of  his  hero  simply  and  accord- 
ing to  rule,  has  not  been  sparing  in  additions,  small 
and  great,  has  here  and  there  substituted  for  the 
complicated  connections  of  historical  events,  invented 
ones.  Through  all  this,  however,  he  has  attained  a 
general  effect  which  is  at  best  a  weak  reflection  of 
the  sublime  effect  that  the  life  of  the  hero  would 
have  produced,  if  well  presented  by  the  historian; 
and  his  error  has  been  in  putting  the  historic  idea  in 
the  place  of  the  dramatic  idea. 

Even  the  poet  who  thinks  more  worthily  of  his 
art,  is  in  danger,  when  busied  with  historical  matter, 


38       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

of  seeking  a  false  unity.  The  historical  writer  has 
taught  him  that  the  shifting  events  of  historic  life 
are  accounted  for  by  the  peculiarities  of  characters, 
which  assume  results,  which  conjure  up  a  fatality. 
The  effect  which  the  intimate  connections  of  an  his- 
toric life  produce,  is  powerful,  and  excites  wonder. 
Determined  by  such  a  force  of  the  real,  the  poet 
seeks  to  comprehend  the  inner  connections  of  events 
in  the  characteristic  elements  of  the  hero's  life. 
The  character  of  the  hero  is  to  him  the  last  motive 
in  laying  the  foundation  for  the  various  vicissitudes 
of  an  active  existence.  A  German  prince,  for  ex- 
ample, powerful  and  high  spirited,  is  forced  by  sheer 
violence  into  conflicts  and  submission;  in  heart-rend- 
ing humiliation  and  deepest  abasement,  he  finds 
again  his  better  self,  and  subdues  his  soaring  pride  ; 
such  a  character  may  possess  all  the  qualities  of  a 
dramatic  hero, — what  is  universally  comprehensible 
and  significant  gushes  forth  powerfully  from  the 
casual  in  his  earthly  life  ;  and  his  lot  in  life  shows 
a  relation  between  guilt  and  punishment,  which 
takes  hold  of  men's  minds  ;  he  appears  as  the  artif- 
icer of  his  own  happiness  or  misery  ;  the  germ  and 
essence  of  his  life  may  be  very  like  a  poetic  idea. 
But  just  before  such  a  similarity,  let  the  poet  pause 
in  distrust.  He  has  to  ask  himself  whether  through 
his  art  he  can  infuse  anything  more  powerful  or 
effective  than  the  story  itself  offers  ;  or,  indeed, 
whether  he  is  at  all  in  a  position  to  enlarge  through 
his  art  any  part  of  the  effects  which,  perceiving  in 
advance,  he  admires  in  the  historical  material.  Of 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  39 

course  he  may  intensify  the  character  of  his  hero. 
What  was  working  in  the  soul  of  Henry  IV.  as  he 
journeyed  toward  Canossa  and  stood  in  his  peni- 
tential garment  by  the  castle  wall,  is  the  secret  of 
the  poet ;  the  historian  knows  very  little  to  tell 
about  it.  To  such  impelling  forces  of  a  real  life, 
the  poet  has  an  inalienable  right.  But  the  dispo- 
sition and  transformations  of  the  historical  hero 
do  not  fashion  themselves  completely  in  short 
periods  of  personal  isolation  ;  and  what  the  poet  was 
lured  by  was  exactly  an  heroic  nature  whose  original 
texture  showed  itself  in  various  occurrences.  Now 
these  occurrences  which  the  historian  reports,  are 
very  numerous.  The  poet  is  obliged  to  limit  him- 
self to  a  very  few.  He  is  obliged  to  remodel  these 
few  in  order  to  give  them  the  significance  which  in 
reality  the  course  of  the  whole  had.  He  will  see 
with  astonishment  how  difficult  this  is,  and  how  by 
this  means  his  hero  becomes  smaller  and  weaker, 
and  that  his  historic  idea  is  completed  with  so  little. 
But,  even  in  the  representation  of  these  selected 
events,  the  poet  is  poorer  than  the  historian.  Every 
one  of  his  impelling  forces  must  have  an  introduc- 
tion that  will  account  for  it  ;  he  must  introduce  to 
the  spectator  his  Hannos,  his  Ottos,  his  Rudolphs 
and  Henrys  ;  he  must  to  a  certain  extent  make 
their  affairs  attractive  ;  two  or  three  times  in  the 
piece  he  will  create  excitement,  then  allay  it  ;  the 
persons  will  throng  and  conceal  each  other  on  the 
narrow  stage  ;  the  rising  interest  of  hearers  will 
every  now  and  then  relapse.  He  will  make  the 


40       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

astonishing  discovery  that  the  hearer's  suspense  is 
usually  not  produced  by  the  characters,  however 
interesting  these  may  be,  but  only  through  the  prog- 
ress of  the  action  ;  and  he  will  at  best  attain  only 
one  or  the  other  greatly  elaborated  scene  with  pure 
dramatic  life,  which  stands  alone  in  a  desert  of 
sketchy,  brief  suggestions  of  mutilated  history,  and 
cramped  invention. 

Engaged  in  such  labor  upon  the  abundant  beau- 
tiful material  offered  in  history,  the  poet  has  proba- 
bly often  abandoned  the  material  without  seeing  its 
beauty.  To  idealize  an  entire  political  human  life 
is  a  prodigious  undertaking.  Cyclic  dramas,  trilo- 
gies, tetralogies,  may  in  most  cases  scarcely  suffice 
for  this.  A  single  historic  movement  may  give  the 
dramatist  superabundant  material.  For,  as  faith 
begins  when  knowledge  ends,  so  poetry  begins  when 
history  leaves  off.  What  history  is  able  to  declare 
can  be  to  the  poet  only  the  frame  within  which  he 
paints  his  most  brilliant  colors,  the  most  secret 
revelations  of  human  nature  ;  how  shall  space  and 
inward  freedom  remain  to  him  for  this,  when  he 
must  toil  and  moil  to  present  a  succession  of  his- 
torical events?  Schiller  has  made  use,  in  his  two 
greatest  historical  pieces,  of  the  historical  catas- 
trophe only,  the  last  scenes  of  a  real  historical  life  ; 
and  for  so  small  an  historic  segment  he  has  required 
in  Walicnstein  three  dramas.  Let  this  example  be 
taken  to  heart.  It  is  true  Gotz  von  Bcrlichingen  will 
always  be  considered  a  very  commendable  poem, 
because  the  chivalric  anecdotes  which  are  excel- 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  41 

lently  presented  with  short,  sharp  strokes,  hold  the 
reader  spellbound  ;  but  upon  the  stage  the  piece  is 
not  an  effective  drama  ;  and  the  same  is  true  of 
Egmont,  although  its  feeble  action,  and  the  lack  of 
characterization  of  its  hero,  is  to  a  certain  extent 
compensated  for  in  the  greater  elaboration  of  its 
vigorous  female  characters. 

Concerning  the  artless  treatment  of  historical 
material  through  the  epic  traditions  of  our  old  stage, 
Shakespeare,  above  all  others,  has  given  hints  to 
the  Germans.  His  historic  plays,  taken  from  Eng- 
lish history,  the  structure  of  which,  except  Richard 
III.  we  should  not  imitate,  had  a  far  different  justi- 
fication. At  that  time  there  was  no  writing  of  his- 
tory, as  we  understand  the  term  ;  and  as  the  poet 
made  use  of  material  from  historic  resources  for  his 
artistic  figures,  he  wrought  from  an  abundance,  and 
opened  up  the  immediate  past  to  his  nation,  in  a 
multitude  of  masterly  character  sketches.  But  he, 
himself,  achieved  for  the  stage  of  his  time  the 
wonderful  advance  to  a  complete  action  ;  and  we 
owe  to  him,  after  he  began  to  make  use  of  the 
material  in  Italian  novels,  our  comprehension  of  how 
irreplaceable  the  noble  effects  are  which  are  pro- 
.  duced  by  a  unified  and  well-ordered  action.  His 
Roman  plays,  if  one  makes  allowance  for  a  few  of 
the  practices  of  his  stage,  and  the  third  act  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  are  models  of  an  established 
construction.  We  do  not  do  well  to  imitate  what 
he  has  overcome. 

Without  doubt,  the  influence  of  the  characters  on 


42       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  texture  of  the  action,  is  greater  in  the  modern 
drama  than  on  the  stage  of  the  ancients.  As  the 
first  impulse  toward  creation  comes  to  the  Germanic 
mind  frequently  through  the  characteristic  features 
of  an  historic  hero  ;  as  the  delineation  of  the  charac- 
ters and  their  representation  by  actors  have  received 
a  finer  finish  than  was  possible  in  the  Greek  masque 
tragedy,  so  will  the  character  of  the  hero  exert 
greater  influence  on  the  structure  of  the  action,  but 
only  that  we  may  thereby  account  for  the  inner, 
consistent,  unified  action  through  the  characteristic 
peculiarities  of  the  hero.  Such  an  establishing  of 
motive  was  not  unknown  to  the  Greeks.  Already 
in  one  of  the  older  plays  of  yEschylus,  The  Suppli- 
ants, the  vacillating  character  of  the  King  of  Argos 
is  made  so  prominent  that  one  distinctly  recognizes 
how,  in  the  missing  piece  which  followed,  the  poet 
had  laid  the  motive  in  this  for  the  surrender  of  the 
Danaids,  who  were  begging  protection.  Sophocles 
is  specially  skilful  in  introducing  as  controlling 
motive  some  marked  trait  of  his  characters,  for 
example,.  Antigone,  Ajax,  Odysseus.  Indeed, 
Euripides  is  even  more  like  the  Germans  than 
Sophocles  in  this,  that  he  delights  in  making  more 
prominent  the  peculiarities  of  his  characters.  In 
general,  however,  the  epic  trend  of  the  fable  was 
much  stronger  than  with  us  ;  as  a  rule  the  persons 
were  fashioned  according  to  the  demands  of  a  well 
known  and  already  prepared  network  of  events,  as 
in  the  case  of  Agamemnon,  Clytemnestra,  Orestes. 
This  was  an  advantage  to  the  Greeks,  but  to  us  it 


THE  DRAMATIC  ACTION.  43 

seems  a  restraint.  With  us  the  poet  not  seldom 
finds  himself  in  the  position,  that  his  hero  is  seeking 
an  action  which  shall  be  a  luminous  center,  throw- 
ing light  on  everything  that  approaches  it.  We  will 
be  able  to  explain,  from  his  nature,  what  is  more 
profound  and  hidden.  But  however  rigidly  we  con- 
struct the  action  according  to  his  needs,  it  must 
always  be  composed  of  individual  parts  which  belong 
to  the  same  event,  and  this  must  extend  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end  of  the  piece.  Among  the 
Greeks,  Sophocles  is  our  master  in  the  management 
of  this  dramatic  unity,  Euripides  unconscionably 
against  it.  How,  in  his  serious  plays,  Shakespeare 
disclosed  this  law  to  himself,  and  gradually  to  us, 
in  the  face  of  the  sixteenth  century  stage,  has 
already  been  mentioned.  Among  the  Germans, 
Lessing  preserves  the  unity  with  great  care  ;  Goethe, 
in  the  short  action  of  Clavigo,  "and  in  the  later  plays 
in  which  he  had  thought  of  the  stage — Tasso  and 
Ipliigcnia.  Schiller  has  observed  the  law  faithfully  in 
Love  and  Intrigue.  Is  it  an  accident  that  in  his  last 
plays,  in  Tell,  and  in  Demetrius,  so  far  as  this  play 
may  be  judged  from  notices  of  it,  he  has  neglected 
the  law?  Whenever  he  approached  the  bounds  of 
license,  it  occurred  through  his  delight  in  episodes 
and  in  double  heroes,  as  in  Don  Carlos,  Mary  Stuart, 
and  \\ 'alien stein. 

Of  kinds  of  material,  those  taken  from  epic  leg- 
ends make  it  not  difficult  to  preserve  the  unity  of 
action  ;  but  their  action  does  not  easily  permit  dra- 
matic elaboration  of  characters.  Material  from 


44       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

novels  preserves  well  the  unity  of  action,  but  the 
characters,  on  account  of  the  entangled  action,  are 
easily  thrown  about  with  too  little  freedom  of  move- 
ment, or  they  are  restrained  in  their  movement 
through  the  portrayal  of  situations.  Historical 
material  offers  the  greatest  and  most  beautiful 
opportunities ;  but  it  is  very  difficult  to  combine  it 
into  a  good  action. 

The  poet's  interest  in  the  characters  of  his 
counter-players  easily  mounts  so  high  that  to  them 
is  accorded  a  rich,  detailed  portrayal,  a  sympathetic 
exposition  of  their  striving  and  their  righting  moods, 
and  a  peculiar  destiny.  Thereby  arises  a  double 
action  for  the  drama  ;  or  the  action  of  the  piece 
may  be  of  such  a  nature  as  to  require  for  its  illu- 
mination and  completion  a  subordinate  action,  which 
through  the  exposition  of  concurrent  or  opposing 
relations  brings  into  'greater  prominence  the  chief 
persons,  with  what  they  do  and  what  they  suffer. 

Various  defects  —  especially  one-sidedness  —  in 
material,  may  make  such  a  completion  desirable. 
One  play  is  not  to  run  through  the  whole  wide 
range  of  affecting  and  thrilling  moods  ;  it  is  not  to 
play  from  its  sober  ground  color,  through  all  the 
possible  color-tones  ;  but  a  variation  in  mood  and 
modest  contrasts  in  color  are  as  necessary  to  the 
drama  as  it  is  that  in  a  painting  in  which  there  are 
many  figures,  the  swing  of  the  lesser  lines  should 
be  in  contrast  with  the  greater  lines  and  groups,  and 
that  in  contrast  with  the  ground  color,  use  should 
be  made  of  dependent,  supplementary  colors.  A 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  45 

specially  somber  material  renders  necessary  the 
introduction  of  bright  accessory  figures.  To  con- 
trast with  the  defiant  characters  of  Iphigenia  and 
Creon,  the  milder  counterparts,  Ismene  and  Harmon, 
were  invented  ;  through  the  introduction  of  Tec- 
messa,  the  despair  of  Ajax  receives  an  affecting 
tone,  the  magic  charm  of  which  we  still  feel  to-day. 
The  gloomy,  pathetic  Othello  requires  opposed  to 
him  some  one  in  whom  the  unrestrained  freedom 
of  humor  is  apparent.  The  somber  figure  of  Wal- 
lenstein  and  his  companions  in  intrigue  imperatively 
demands  that  the  brilliant  Max  be  joined  with  them. 
If,  for  this  reason,  the  Greeks  classed  their  plays 
into  those  with  single  action,  and  those  with  double 
action,  the  modern  drama  has  much  less  avoided 
the  extension  of  counter-play  into  an  accessory 
action.  The  interweaving  of  this  with  the  main 
action  has  occurred  sometimes  at  the  expense  of  the 
combined  effect.  The  Germans,  especially,  who 
are  always  inclined,  during  their  labor,  to  grasp  the 
significance  of  the  accessory  persons  with  great 
ardor,  must  guard  themselves  against  too  wide  an 
extension  of  the  subordinate  action.  Even  Shakes- 
peare has  occasionally,  in  this  way,  injured  the 
effect  of  the  drama,  most  strikingly  in  Lear,  in 
which  the  whole  parallel  action  of  the  house  of 
Gloucester,  but  loosely  connected  with  the  main 
action,  and  treated  with  no  particular  fondness, 
retards  the  movement,  and  needlessly  renders  the 
whole  more  bitter.  The  poet  allowed  the  episodes 
in  both  parts  of  Henry  IV.  to  develop  into  an 


46       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

accessory  action,  the  immortal  humor  of  which  out- 
shines the  serious  effect  of  the  play  ;  and  this  has 
made  these  dramas  favorites  of  the  reader.  Every 
admirer  of  Falstaff  will  grant,  however,  that  the 
general  effect  on  the  stage  has  not  the  correspond- 
ing power,  in  spite  of  this  charm.  Let  it  be  noticed, 
in  passing,  that  in  Shakespeare's  comedies  the 
double  action  belongs  to  the  nature  of  the  play  ;  he 
strives  to  take  from  his  clowns  the  episodical,  while 
he  interweaves  them  with  the  serious  action.  The 
genial  humor  which  beams  from  their  scenes  must 
sometimes  conceal  the  harder  elements  in  the 
material  ;  as  when  the  constables  must  help  to  pre- 
vent the  sad  fate  threatening  the  heroine.  Among 
German  poets,  Schiller  was  most  in  danger  of  injury 
from  the  double  action.  The  disproportion  of  the 
accessory  action  in  Don  Carlos  and  Mary  Stuart 
rests  upon  this,  that  his  ardor  for  the  character  set 
in  contrast  to  the  hero,  becomes  too  great ;  in  Wal- 
lenstcin,  the  same  principle  has  extended  the  piece  to 
a  trilogy.  In  Tell,  three  actions  run  parallel.5 

It  is  the  business  of  the  action  to  represent  to  us 
the  inner  consistency  of  the  event,  as  it  corresponds 
to  the  demands  of  the  intellect  and  the  heart. 
Whatever,  in  the  crude  material,  does  not  serve  this 
purpose,  the  poet  is  in  duty  bound  to  throw  away. 
And  it  is  desirable  that  he  adhere  strictly  to  this 
principle,  to  give  only  what  is  indispensable  to  unity. 
Yet  he  may  not  avoid  a  deviation  from  this ;  for 
there  will  be  occasional  deviations  desirable  which 
may  strengthen  the  color  of  the  piece,  in  a  manner 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  47 

conformable  to  its  purpose ;  which  may  intensify 
the  meaning  of  the  characters,  and  enhance  the  gen- 
eral effect  by  the  introduction  of  a  new  color,  or  a 

w 

contrast.  These  embellishing  additions  of  the  poet 
are  called  episodes.  They  are  of  various  kinds.  At 
a  point  where  the  action  suffers  a  short  pause,  a 
characterizing  moment  may  be  enlarged  into  a  situ- 
ation ;  opportunity  may  be  given  a  hero  to  exhibit 
some  significant  characteristic  of  his  being  in  an 
attractive  manner,  in  connection  with  some  subordi- 
nate person ;  some  subordinate  role  of  the  piece 
may,  through  ampler  elaboration,  be  developed  into 
an  attractive  figure.  By  a  modest  use,  which  must 
not  take  time  from  what  is  more  important,  these 
may  become  an  embellishment  to  the  drama.  And 
the  poet  has  to  treat  them  as  ornaments,  and  to  com- 
pensate for  them  with  serious  work,  if  they  ever 
retard  the  action.  The  episodes  perform  different 
duties,  according  to  the  parts  of  the  drama  in  which 
they  appear.  While  at  the  beginning  they  enter  into 
the  roles  of  the  chief  persons  to  delineate  these  in 
their  idiosyncracies,  they  are  allowed  in  the  last  part 
as  enlargements  of  those  new  roles  which  afford  les- 
ser aids  to  the  movement  of  the  action ;  in  each 
place,  however,  they  must  be  felt  to  be  advantageous 
additions.8 

The  Greeks  understood  this  word  in  a  somewhat 
broader  sense.  That  which  in  the  plays  of  Sopho- 
cles his  contemporaries  called  episode,  we  no  longer 
so  name :  for  the  ingenious  art  of  this  great  master 
consisted,  among  other  things,  in  this,  that  he  inter- 


48       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

wove  his  beautifying  additions  very  intimately  with 
his  action,  for  the  most  part  to  set  the  characters  of 
the  chief  heroes  in  a  stronger  light,  by  means  of 
contrast.  Thus,  in  Elcctra,  in  addition  to  the  Ismene 
scene,  mentioned  later,  Chrysomethis  is  indispensa- 
ble according  to  our  feeling  for  the  chief  heroine, 
and  no  longer  as  episode,  but  as  part  of  the  action. 
Moreover,  where  he  paints  a  situation  more  broadly, 
as  in  the  beginning  of  CEdipus  at  Colonos,  such  a  por- 
trayal corresponds  throughout  to  the  customs  of  our 
stage.  Shakespeare  treats  his  episodes  almost 
exactly  in  the  same  way.  Even  in  those  serious 
plays,  which  have  a  more  artistic  construction,  there 
are,  in  almost  every  act,  partly  extended  scenes, 
partly  whole  roles  of  episodical  elaboration ;  but 
there  is  so  much  of  the  beautiful  worked  in  and  with 
this,  so  much  that  is  efficient  for  the  combined 
effect,  that  the  severest  manager  of  our  stage,  who 
may  be  compelled  to  shorten  the  drama,  rarely 
ever  allows  these  passages  to  be  expunged.  Mer- 
cutio,  with  his  Queen  Mab,  and  the  jests  of  the 
nurse,  the  interviews  of  Hamlet  with  the  players  and 
courtiers,  as  well  as  the  grave-digger  scene,  are  such 
examples  as  recur  in  almost  all  his  plays.  Almost 
superabundantly,  and  with  apparent  carelessness, 
the  great  artist  adorns  all  parts  of  his  piece  with 
golden  ornaments  ;  but  he  who  approaches  to  unclasp 
them,  finds  them  fastened  as  if  with  steel,  grown 
inseparably  into  what  they  adorn.  Of  the  Germans, 
Lessing,  with  a  reverential  regularity  joined  his  epi- 
sodes to  the  carefully  planned  structure  of  his  piece, 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  49 

according  to  his  own  method,  which  was  transferred 
to  his  successors.  His  episodes  are  little  character 
roles.  The  painter  and  countess  Orsina,  in  Emilia 
Galotti  (the  last,  the  better  prototype  of  Lady  Mil- 
ford),  Riccault,  in  Minna  von  Barnhelm,  indeed, 
even  the  Dervise  in  Nathan  The  Wise,  became  models 
for  the  German  episodes  of  the  eighteenth  century. 
Goethe  has  not  honored  them  with  a  place  in  his 
regular  plays,  Clavigo,  Tasso,  Iphigcnia.  In  Schiller, 
they  throng  abundantly  in  every  form,  as  portrayals, 
as  detailed  situations,  as  accessory  figures  in  the 
conjoined  action.  Frequently,  through  their  pecul- 
iar beauty,  they  are  adapted  to  be  effective  adjuncts 
to  the  stilted,  tedious  movement,  but  not  always; 
for  we  would  gladly  spare  some  single  ones,  like 
Parricida  in  William  Tell,  just  because  in  this  case 
the  understood  purpose  is  so  striking;  and  The 
Black  Knight  in  the  Maid  of  Orleans;  and  not  sel- 
dom the  long-drawn  observations  and  delineations 
in  his  dialogue-scenes. 

IV. 
PROBABILITY  OF  THE  ACTION. 

The  action  of  the  serious  drama  must  be  probable. 

Poetic  truth  is  imparted  to  material  taken  from 
real  life,  by  its  being  raised  above  its  casual  connec- 
tions and  receiving  a  universally  understood  mean- 
ing and  significance.  In  dramatic  poetry,  this 
transformation  of  reality  with  poetic  truth  is  effected 
thus  :  the  essential  parts,  bound  together  and  unified 
by  some  causative  connection,  and  all  the  accessory 


50   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

inventions,  are  conceived  as  probable  and  credible 
motives  of  the  represented  events.  But  more  than 
this,  poetic  truth  is  needed  in  the  drama.  The 
entertained  hearer  surrenders  himself  gladly  to  the 
invention  of  the  poet ;  he  gladly  lets  the  presump- 
tion of  a  piece  please  him,  and  is  in  general  quite 
inclined  to  approve  of  the  invented  human  relations 
in  the  world  of  beautiful  illusion  ;  but  he  is  not  able 
entirely  to  forget  the  reality  ;  he  holds  close  to  this 
poetic  picture,  which  rises  full  of  charm  before  him, 
the  picture  of  the  real  world  in  which  he  breathes. 
He  brings  with  him  before  the  stage  a  certain 
knowledge  of  historical  relations,  definite,  ethical 
and  moral  demands  upon  human  life,  presages  and 
a  clear  knowledge  of  the  course  of  events.  To  a 
certain  extent,  it  is  impossible  for  him  to  renounce 
this  purport  of  his  own  life  ;  and  sometimes  he  feels 
it  very  strongly  when  the  poetic  picture  contradicts 
it.  That  ocean  vessels  should  land  on  the  coast  of 
Bohemia,  that  Charlemagne  should  use  cannon, 
appears  to  our  spectators  a  serious  mistake. 

That  the  Jew,  Shylock,  is  promised  mercy  if  he 
will  turn  Christian,  shocks  the  moral  sense  of  the 
spectator,  and  he  is  probably  not  inclined  to  concede 
that  a  just  judge  has  so  decided.  That  Thoas,  who 
in  so  refined  and  dignified  a  manner  seeks  the  hand 
of  the  priestess  Iphigenia,  allows  human  sacrifices  in 
his  kingdom,  appears  as  an  internal  contradiction 
between  the  noble  personality  of  the  characters  and 
the  presuppositions  of  the  piece  ;  and  however 
shrewdly  the  poet  conceals  this  irrational  element,  it 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  51 

yet  may  be  injurious  to  the  effect  of  the  play.  That 
CEdipus  rules  many  years  without  troubling  himself 
about  the  death  of  Laius,  appears  to  the  Athenians, 
even  at  the  first  presentation  of  the  play,  as  a  doubt- 
ful supposition. 

Now  it  is  well  known  that  this  picture  of  the 
real,  which  the  spectator  holds  up  against  the  single 
drama,  docs  not  remain  the  same  in  every  century, 
but  is  changed  by  each  advance  of  human  culture. 
The  interpretation  of  past  times,  moral  and  social 
demands,  the  social  relations,  are  nothing  firmly 
established  ;  but  every  spectator  is  a  child  of  his 
time  ;  for  each  the  comprehension  of  what  is  com- 
monly acceptable,  is  limited  through  his  personality 
and  the  culture  of  his  age. 

And  it  is  further  clear  that  this  picture  of  real 
life  shades  off  differently  in  the  mind  of  each  per- 
son, and  that  the  poet,  however  fully  and  richly  he 
has  taken  into  his  own  life  the  culture  of  his  race, 
still  is  confronted  with  conceptions  of  reality  in  a 
thousand  different  tones.  He  has,  indeed,  the  great 
calling  to  be,  in  his  time,  the  apostle  of  the  highest 
and  most  liberal  culture,  and  without  posturing  as  a 
teacher,  to  draw  his  hearers  upward  toward  himself. 
But  to  the  dramatic  poet  there  are  for  this  reason 
private  bounds  staked  out.  He  must  not  exceed 
these  bounds.  He  must  not,  in  many  cases,  leave 
vacant  any  of  the  space  which  they  enclose.  Where 
they  arise  invisible,  they  may  be  divined  in  each 
single  case  only  through  delicate  sensibility  and 
trustworthy  feeling. 


52       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  effects  of  dramatic  art  are,  so  to  speak, 
sociable.  As  the  dramatic  work  of  art,  in  a 
combination  of  several  arts,  is  represented  through 
the  general  activity  of  numerous  adjuncts,  so  is  the 
audience  of  the  poet  a  body  composed  of  many 
changing  individuals  and  yet,  as  a  whole,  a  unit, 
which  like  every  human  congregation,  might- 
ily influences  the  individuals  who  compose  it;  a 
certain  agreement  in  feeling  and  contemplation 
develops,  elevates  one,  depresses  another,  and  to  a 
great  extent  equalizes  mood  and  judgment  through  a 
common  opinion.  This  community  of  feeling  in  the 
audience  expresses  itself  continually  by  its  reception 
of  the  dramatic  effects ;  it  may  increase  their  power 
prodigiously,  it  may  weaken  them  in  an  equal 
degree.  Scarcely  will  a  single  hearer  escape  the 
influence  which  an  unsympathetic  house  or  an  enthu- 
siastic audience  exercise?  on  him.  Indeed,  everyone 
has  felt  how  different  the  impression  is  which  the 
same  piece  makes,  equally  well  presented  on  different 
stages  before  a  differently  constituted  audience. 
The  poet,  while  composing,  is  invariably  directed, 
perhaps  without  knowing  it,  by  his  conception  of 
the  intelligence,  taste,  and  intellectual  requirements 
of  his  audience.  He  knows  that  he  must  not 
attribute  too  much  to  it,  nor  dare  he  offer  it  too 
little.  He  must,  moreover,  so  arrange  his  action 
that  it  shall  not  bring  into  collision  with  its  presup- 
positions a  good  average  of  his  hearers,  who  bring 
these  from  actual  life  before  the  stage ;  that  is,  he 
must  make  the  connection  of  events  and  the  motives 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  53 

and  outlines  of  his  heroes  probable.  If  he  succeeds 
in  this  respect  with  the  groundwork  of  his  piece,  the 
action  and  the  outlines  of  his  characters,  as  for  the 
rest,  he  may  trust  to  his  hearers  the  most  refined 
culture  and  the  keenest  understanding  which  his 
performance  contains. 

This  consideration  must  guide  the  poet  most 
when  he  is  tempted  to  put  forward  what  is  strange 
or  marvellous.  To  make  charming  what  is  strange, 
is,  indeed,  possible.  The  dramatic  art  specially  has 
rich  means  of  making  it  understood,  and  of  laying 
stress  upon  what  is  intelligible  to  us  ;  but  for  this 
there  is  needed  a  special  expenditure  of  force  and 
time;  and  frequently  the  question  is  justified,  whether 
the  effect  aimed  at  warrants  the  expenditure  of  time 
and  compensates  for  the  limitation  of  the  essentials 
occasioned.  Especially  the  newer  poets,  with  no 
definitely  marked  out  field  of  material,  in  the  midst 
of  a  period  of  culture  to  which  the  ready  reception 
of  extraneous  pictures  is  peculiar,  can  easily  be 
enticed  to  gather  material  from  the  culture-relations, 
the  civilization  of  a  dark  age,  of  remote  peoples. 
Perhaps  just  what  is  marvellous  in  such  material  has 
appeared  peculiarly  valuable  for  sharply  delineating 
individual  portraiture.  Already  a  minute  observa- 
tion of  early  times  in  Germany,  or  of  the  old  world, 
offers  numerous  peculiarities,  circumstances  unknown 
to  the  life  of  later  times,  in  which  a  striking  and 
significant  meaning  is  manifested  of  highest  import 
to  the  historian  of  culture.  These  can  be  used 
by  the  poet,  however,  only  in  exceptional  cases, 


54       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

with  most  skilful  treatment,  and  as  accessories 
which  deepen  a  color.  For  not  out  of  the  pecul- 
iarities of  human  life,  but  out  of  its  immortal 
import,  out  of  what  is  common  to  us  and  to 
the  old  times,  blossom  his  successes.  Still  more 
he  will  avoid  presenting  such  strange  peoples 
as  stand  entirely  outside  the  great  forward  move- 
ments of  civilization.  That  which  is  unusual  in 
their  manners  and  customs,  their  costumes,  or  even 
the  color  of  their  skins,  is  distracting  and  excites 
attendant  images  which  are  unfavorable  to  serious  art 
effects.  In  a  crude  way,  the  ideal  world  of  poetry 
is  joined  in  the  hearer's  mind  with  a  picturing  of 
real  circumstances,  which  can  claim  an  interest  only 
because  they  are  real.  But  even  the  inner  life  of 
such  foreigners  is  unsuitable  for  dramatic  expres- 
sion ;  for,  without  exception,  the  capability  is  in 
reality  wanting  in  them  of  presenting  in  any  fulness 
the  inner  mental  processes  which  our  art  finds 
necessary.  And  the  transferring  of  such  a  degree 
of  culture  into  their  souls,  rightly  arouses  in  the 
hearer  a  feeling  of  impropriety.  Anyone  who  would 
lay  the  scene  of  his  action  among  the  ancient  Egypt- 
ians or  the  present-day  fellahs,  among  the  Japanese 
or  even  Hindoos,  would  perhaps  awaken  an  ethno- 
graphic interest  by  the  strange  character  of  his 
people ;  but  this  interest  of  curiosity  in  the  unusual 
would  not  increase  for  the  hearer  before  the  stage 
the  real  interest  in  what  may  be  the  poetical  mean- 
ing, but  would  thwart  it  and  prejudice  it.  It  is  no 
accident  that  only  such  peoples  are  a  fitting  basis 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  55 

for  the  drama  as  have  advanced  so  far  in  the  devel- 
opment of  their  intellectual  life  that  they  themselves 
could  produce  a  popular  drama — Greeks,  Romans, 
cultured  peoples  of  modern  times ;  after  these, 
a  people  nearly  like  them,  whose  nationality  has 
grown  up  with  ours,  or  with  the  ancient  culture,  like 
the  Hebrews — scarcely  yet  the  Turks. 

How  far  the  marvellous  may  be  deemed  worthy 
of  the  drama,  cannot  be  doubtful  even  to  us  Ger- 
mans, upon  whose  stage  the  most  spirited  and  most 
amiable  of  all  devils  has  received  citizenship.  Dra- 
matic poetry  is  poorer  and  richer  than  her  sisters, 
lyric  and  epic,  in  this  respect,  that  she  can  represent 
only  men,  and,  if  one  looks  more  closely,  only  cul- 
tivated men,  these,  however,  fully  and  profoundly 
as  no  other  art  can.  She  must  arrange  historical 
relations  by  inventing  for  them  an  inner  consistency 
which  is  thoroughly  comprehensible  to  human  under- 
standing. How  shall  she  embody  the  supernatural? 

But  granted  that  she  undertakes  this,  she  can  do 
it  only  in  so  far  as  the  superhuman,  already  poet- 
ically prepared  through  the  imagination  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  provided  with  a  personality  corresponding  to 
the  human,  is  personifiable  through  sharply  stamped 
features  even  to  details.  Thus  given  form,  the  Greek 
gods  lived  in  the  Greek  world  among  their  people ; 
thus  hover  among  us  still,  fashioned  with  affection, 
images  of  many  of  the  holy  ones  of  Christian 
legend,  almost  numberless  shadowy  forms,  from  the 
household  faith  of  German  primitive  times.  Not  a 
few  of  the  images  of  fancy  have,  through  poetry, 


56   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

legend,  painting,  and  the  spirit  of  our  people,  which, 
credulous  or  incredulous,  is  still  busied  with  them, 
received  so  rich  an  amplification,  that  they  sur- 
round the  creating  artist  during  his  labor  like  old, 
trusted  friends.  The  Virgin  Mary,  St.  Peter  at  the 
gate  of  heaven,  many  saints,  archangels,  and  angels, 
and  not  last  the  considerable  swarm  of  devils,  live 
among  our  people,  credulously  associated  with 
women  in  white,  the  wild  huntsman,  elves,  giants 
and  dwarfs.  But,  however  alluringly  the  colors 
gleam  which  they  wear  in  their  twilight,  before  the 
sharp  illumination  of  the  tragic  stage,  they  vanish 
into  unsubstantial  shadows.  For  it  is  true  they 
have  received  through  the  people  a  sh:-re  in  human 
feeling,  and  in  the  conditions  of  human  life.  But 
this  participation  is  only  of  the  epic  kind ;  they  are 
not  fashioned  for  dramatic  mental  processes.  In 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  legends,  the  Germans 
make  the  little  spirits  complain  that  they  cannot  be 
happy ;  that  is  that  they  have  no  human  soul.  The 
same  difference,  which  already  in  the  middle  ages 
the  people  felt,  keeps  them  in  a  different  way  from 
the  modern  stage — inward  struggles  are  wanting  in 
them,  freedom  fails  to  test  and  to  choose,  they  stand 
outside  of  morals,  law,  right ;  neither  a  complete 
lack  of  changeableness,  nor  perfected  purity,  nor 
complete  wickedness  are  presentable,  because  they 
exclude  all  inward  agitation.  Even  the  Greeks  felt 
this.  When  the  gods  should  rather  be  represented 
on  the  stage  than  speak  a  command  ex  machina, 
they  must  either  become  entirely  men,  with  all  the 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  57 

pain  and  rage,  like  Prometheus,  or  they  must  sink 
beneath  the  nobility  of  human  nature,  without  the 
poets  being  able  to  hinder,  down  to  blank  generali- 
zations of  love  and  hate,  like  Athene,  in  the  pro- 
logue of  Ajax, 

While  gods  and  spirits  have  a  bad  standing  in 
the  serious  drama,  they  have  far  better  success  in 
the  comedy.  And  the  now  worn-out  magic  tricks 
give  only  a  very  pale  representation  of  what  our 
spirit  world  could  be  to  a  poet,  in  whimsical  and 
humorous  representation.  If  the  Germans  shall 
ever  be  ripe  for  political  comedy,  then  will  they 
learn  to  use  the  wealth,  the  inexhaustible  treasure 
of  motives  and  resistance  which  can  be  mined  from 
this  world  of  phantasy,  for  droll  freaks,  political 
satire,  and  humorous  portraiture. 

For  what  has  been  said,  Faust  is  the  best  proof ; 
and  in  this  play,  the  role  of  Mephistopheles.  Here 
the  genius  of  the  greatest  of  German  poets  has 
created  a  stage  problem  which  has  become  the 
favorite  task  of  our  character  players.  Each  of 
them  seeks  in  his  own  manner  to  solve,  with  credit 
to  himself,  the  riddle  which  can  not  be  solved ;  the 
one  brings  out  the  mask  of  the  old  wood-cut  devil, 
another,  the  cavalier  youth  Voland ;  at  best,  the 
player  will  succeed  with  the  business  who  contents 
himself  prudently  and  with  spirit  to  render  intel- 
ligible the  fine  rhetoric  of  the  dialogue,  and  exhib- 
its in  the  comic  scenes  a  suitable  bearing  and  good 
humor.  The  poet  has  indeed  made  it  exceedingly 
difficult  for  the  player,  of  whom,  during  the  com- 


58       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

position  of  the  piece,  he  did  not  think  at  all  ;  for 
the  role  changes  into  all  colors,  from  the  true- 
hearted  speech  of  Hans  Sachs,  to  the  subtle  dis- 
cussion of  a  Spinozist,  from  the  grotesque  to  the 
terrifying.  And  if  one  examines  more  closely  how 
the  representation  of  this  piece  still  becomes  pos- 
sible on  the  stage,  the  ultimate  reason  is  the  entrance 
of  a  comic  element.  Mephistopheles  appears  in 
some  serious  situations,  but  is  a  comic  figure  treated 
in  a  grand  style ;  and  so  far  as  he  produces  an  effect 
on  the  stage,  he  does  it  in  this  direction. 

By  this  is  not  meant  that  the  mysterious,  that 
which  has  no  foundation  in  human  reason,  should  be 
entirely  banished  from  the  province  of  the  drama. 
Dreams,  portents,  prophesyings,  ghost-seers,  the 
intrusion  of  the  spirit  world  upon  human  life,  every- 
thing for  which  there  may  be  supposed  to  be  a  cer- 
tain susceptibility  in  the  soul  of  the  hearer,  the  poet 
may  employ  as  a  matter  of  course  for  the  occasional 
strengthening  of  his  effects.  It  is  understood  in 
this  that  he  must  appreciate  rightly  the  susceptibil- 
ity of  his  contemporaries ;  we  are  no  longer  much 
inclined  to  care  for  this,  and  only  very  sparing  use 
of  side  effects  is  now  accorded  to  the  poet.  Shake- 
speare was  allowed  to  use  this  kind  of  minor 
accessories  with  greater  liberty ;  for  in  the  senti- 
ments of  even  his  educated  contemporaries,  the 
popular  tradition  was  very  vivid,  and  the  connection 
with  the  world  of  spirits  was  universally  conceived 
far  differently.  The  soul-processes  of  a  man  strug- 
gling under  a  heavy  burden,  were,  not  only  among 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  59 

the  people  but  with  the  more  pretentious,  very  dif- 
ferently thought  of.  In  the  case  of  intense  fear, 
qualm  of  conscience,  remorse,  the  power  of  imagin- 
ation conjured  up  before  the  sufferer  the  image  of 
the  frightful,  still  as  something  external ;  the  mur- 
derer saw  the  murdered  rise  before  him  as  a  ghost ; 
clutching  into  the  air,  he  felt  the  weapon  with  which 
he  committed  the  crime ;  he  heard  the  voice  of  the 
dead  ringing  in  his  ear.  Shakespeare  and  his  hear- 
ers conceived,  therefore,  Macbeth's  dagger  even  on 
the  stage,  and  the  ghosts  of  Banquo,  Caesar,  the 
elder  Hamlet,  and  the  victims  of  Richard  III.,  far 
differently  from  ourselves.  To  them  this  was  not 
yet  a  bold,  customary  symbolizing  of  the  inward 
struggles  of  their  heroes,  an  accidental,  shrewd 
invention  of  the  poet,  who  supported  his  effects  by 
this  ghostly  trumpery ;  but  it  was  to  them  the  nec- 
essary method,  customary  in  their  land,  in  which 
themselves  experienced,  dread,  horrar,  struggles  of 
soul.  Dread  was  not  artistically  excited  by  recol- 
lection of  nursery  tales ;  the  stage  presented  only 
what  had  been  frightful  in  their  own  lives,  or  what 
could  be.  For  while  young  Protestantism  had  laid 
the  severest  struggles  in  men's  consciences,  and 
while  the  thoughts  and  the  most  passionate  moods 
of  the  excited  soul  had  been  already  more  carefully 
and  critically  observed  by  individuals,  the  mode  of 
thinking  natural  to  the  middle  ages,  had  not,  for 
that  reason,  quite  disappeared.  Therefore  Shake- 
speare could  make  use  of  this  kind  of  effects,  and 
expect  more  from  them  than  we  can. 


60   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

But  he  furnishes  at  the  same  time  the  best 
example  of  how  these  ghost-like  apparitions  may 
be  rendered  artistically  worthy  of  the  drama.  Who- 
ever must  present  heroes  of  past  centuries  accord- 
ing to  the  view  of  life  of  their  time,  will  not  entirely 
conceal  men's  lack  of  freedom  from  and  dependence 
on  legendary  figures  ;  but  he  will  use  them  as  Shake- 
speare used  his  witches  in  the  first  act  of  Macbeth, 
as  arabesques  which  mirror  the  color  and  mood  of 
the  time,  and  which  only  give  occasion  for  forcing 
from  the  inner  man  of  the  hero  what  has  grown  up 
in  his  own  soul,  with  the  liberty  necessary  for  a  dra- 
matic figure. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  in  the  work  of  the  mod- 
ern poet,  such  accessories  of  the  action  serve  espe- 
cially to  give  color  and  mood.  They  belong  also 
to  the  first  half  of  the  play.  But  even  when  they 
are  interwoven  with  the  effects  of  the  later  parts, 
their  appearance  must  be  arranged  for  in  the  first 
part,  by  a  coloring  in  harmony  with  them ;  and 
besides  this,  the  way  must  be  paved  for  them  other- 
wise, with  great  care.  Thus  the  appearance  of  The 
Black  Knight  in  the  Maid  of  Orleans  is  a  disturbing 
element,  because  his  ghostly  form  comes  to  view 
with  no  preparation  of  the  audience,  and  is  thor- 
oughly unsuitable  to  the  brilliant,  thoughtful  lan- 
guage of  Schiller,  to  the  tone  and  color  of  the  piece. 
The  time  and  the  action  would,  in  themselves,  have 
very  well  allowed  such  an  apparition ;  and  it 
appeared  to  the  poet  a  counterpart  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin  who  bears  banner  and  sword  in  the  play. 


THE  DRAMATIC  ACTION.  61 

But  Schiller  did  not  bring  the  Blessed  Virgin  her- 
self upon  the  stage ;  he  only  had  her  reported  in  his 
magnificent  fashion.  Had  the  prologue  presented 
the  decisive  interview  between  the  shepherdess  and 
the  Mother  of  God  in  such  language  and  with  such 
naive  address  as  the  material  from  the  middle  ages 
would  suggest,  then  there  would  have  been  a  better 
preparation  for  the  later  appearance  of  the  evil 
spirit.  In  costume  and  speech,  the  role  is  not 
advantageously  equipped.  Schiller  was  an  admira- 
ble master  in  the  disposition  of  the  most  varied  his- 
torical coloring ;  but  the  glimmer  of  the  legendary 
was  not  to  the  taste  of  one  who  always  painted  in 
full  colors,  and  if  a  playful  simile  is  allowed,  used 
most  fondly,  gleaming  golden  yellow,  and  dark  sky 
blue.  On  the  other  hand,  Goethe,  the  unrestrained 
master  of  lyric  moods,  has  made  an  admirable  use 
of  the  spirit-world  to  give  color  to  Faust,  but  not  at 
all  with  a  view  to  its  presentation  on  the  stage. 

V. 
IMPORTANCE  AND  MAGNITUDE    OF   THE  ACTION. 

The  action  of  the  serious  drama  must  possess  import- 
ance and  magnitude. 

The  struggles  of  individual  men  must  affect  their 
inmost  life ;  the  object  of  the  struggle  must,  accord- 
ing to  universal  apprehension,  be  a  noble  one,  the 
treatment  dignified.  The  characters  must  corre- 
spond to  such  a  meaning  of  the  action,  in  order  that 
the  play  may  produce  a  noble  effect.  If  the  action 


62   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

is  constructed  in  conformity  with  the  stated  law, 
and  the  characters  are  inadequate  to  the  demands 
thus  created,  or  if  the  characters  evince  strong  pas- 
sion and  extreme  agitation,  while  these  elements  are 
wanting  to  the  action,  the  incongruity  is  painfully 
apparent  to  the  spectator.  Euripides'  Iphigenia  in 
Aulis  contains  what  affords  to  the  stage  the  most 
frightful  struggles  of  the  human  soul  ;  but  the  char- 
acters, at  least  with  the  exception  of  Clytemnestra, 
are  poorly  invented,  disfigured  either  through  unnec- 
essary meanness  of  sentiment,  or  through  lack  of 
force,  or  through  sudden,  unwarranted  change  of 
feeling ;  thus  Agamemnon,  Menelaus,  Achilles, 
Iphigenia.  Again,  in  Shakespeare's  Timon  of  Athens, 
the  character  of  the  hero,  from  the  moment  when  he 
is  aroused  to  activity,  has  an  ever-increasing  energy 
and  power,  to  which  a  gloomy  grandeur  is  not  at  all 
lacking,  but  idea  and  action  stand  in  incongruity 
with  it.  That  a  warm-hearted,  trusting  spendthrift 
should,  after  the  loss  of  external  possessions,  become 
a  misanthrope  through  the  ingratitude  and  meanness 
of  his  former  friends,  presupppses  the  weakness  of 
his  own  character  and  the  pitiableness  of  his  sur- 
roundings ;  and  this  instability,  lamentableness  of 
all  the  relations  represented,  restrains  the  sympathy 
of  the  hearer  in  spite  of  great  poetic  skill. 

But  even  the  environment,  the  sphere  of  life  of 
the  hero,  influences  the  dignity  and  magnitude  of 
the  action.  We  demand  rightly  that  the  hero 
whose  fate  is  to  hold  us  spellbound,  shall  possess  a 
character  whose  force  and  worth  shall  exceed  the 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  63 

measure  of  the  average  man.  This  force  of  his 
being,  however,  does  not  lie  wholly  in  the  energy  of 
his  will  and  the  violence  of  his  passion,  but  as  well 
in  his  possessing  a  rich  share  of  the  culture,  man- 
ners, and  spiritual  capacity  of  his  time.  He  must 
be  represented  as  superior  in  the  important  relations 
of  his  surroundings  ;  and  his  surroundings  must  be 
so  created  as  easily  to  awaken  in  the  hearer  a  keen 
interest.  It  is,  therefore,  no  accident  that  when  an 
action  is  laid  in  past  time,  it  always  seeks  the 
realm  in  which  what  is  greatest  and  most  important 
is  contained,  the  greatest  affairs  of  a  people,  the  life 
of  its  leaders  and  rulers,  those  heights  of  humanity 
that  have  developed  not  only  a  mighty  spiritual  sig- 
nificance, but  also  a  significant  power  of  will. 
Scarce  any  but  the  deeds  and  destinies  of  such  com- 
manding figures  have  been  handed  down  to  us  from 
the  former  times. 

With  material  from  later  times,  the  relations,  of 
course,  are  changed.  No  longer  are  the  most  pow- 
erful passions  and  the  sublimest  soul-struggles  to  be 
recognized  at  courts  and  among  political  rulers 
alone,  nor  even  generally.  There  remains,  however, 
to  these  figures  for  the  drama  a  pre-eminence  which 
may  be,  for  their  life  and  that  of  their  contempo- 
raries, a  positive  disadvantage.  They  are  now  less 
exposed  to  the  compulsion  which  middle-class 
society  exercises  on  the  private  citizen.  They  are 
not,  to  the  same  degree  as  the  private  citizen,  sub- 
jected to  civil  law,  and  they  know  it.  In  domestic 
and  foreign  conflicts,  their  own  self  has  not  greater 


64   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

right  but  greater  might.  So  they  appear  exposed 
to  freer,  more  powerful  temptation,  and  capable  of 
greater  self-direction.  It  must  be  added  that  the 
relations  in  which  they  live,  and  the  directions  in 
which  they  exert  influence,  offer  the  greatest  wealth 
of  colors  and  the  most  varied  multiplicity  of  fig- 
ures. Finally  the  counterplay  against  their  char- 
acters and  against  their  purposes  is  most  effective  ; 
and  the  sphere  of  the  interests  for  which  they 
should  live,  embraces  the  most  important  affairs  of 
the  human  race. 

The  life  of  the  private  citizen  has  also  been  for 
centuries  freeing  itself  from  the  external  restraint  of 
restricting  traditions,  has  been  gaining  nobility  and 
spiritual  freedom,  and  become  full  of  contradictions 
and  conflicts.  In  any  realm  of  reality,  where 
worldly  aims  and  movements  resulting  from  the 
civilization  of  the  times  have  penetrated,  a  tragic 
hero  may  be  generated  and  developed  in  its  atmos- 
phere. It  depends  only  on  whether  a  struggle  is 
possible  for  him,  which,  according  to  the  general 
opinion  of  the  audience,  has  a  great  purpose,  and 
whether  the  opposition  to  this  develops  a  corre- 
sponding activity  worthy  of  consideration.  Since, 
however,  the  importance  and  greatness  of  the  con- 
flict can  be  made  impressive  only  by  endowing  the 
hero  with  the  capability  of  expressing  his  inmost 
thought  and  feeling  in  a  magnificent  manner;  with  a 
certain  luxuriance  of  language ;  and  since  these 
demands  increase  among  such  men  as  belong  to  the 
life  of  modern  times, —  to  the  hero  of  the  modern 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  65 

stage  a  suitable  measure  of  the  culture  of  the  time 
is  indispensable.  For  only  in  this  way  does  he 
receive  freedom  of  thought  and  will.  Therefore, 
such  classes  of  society  as  remain  until  our  own 
time  under  the  sway  of  epic  relations,  whose  life 
is  specially  directed  by  the  customs  of  their  circle  ; 
such  classes  as  still  languish  under  the  pressure  of 
circumstances  which  the  spectator  observes  and 
decides  to  be  unjust  ;  finally,  such  classes  as  are  not 
specially  qualified  to  transpose,  in  a  creative  man- 
ner, their  thoughts  and  emotions  into  discourse, — 
such  are  not  available  for  heroes  of  the  drama, 
however  powerfully  passion  works  in  their  natures, 
however  their  feeling,  in  single  hours,  breaks  out 
with  spontaneous,  native  force. 

From  what  has  been  said,  it  follows  that  tragedy 
must  forego  grounding  its  movement  on  motives 
which  the  judgment  of  the  spectator  will  condemn 
as  lamentable,  common,  or  unintelligible.  Even 
such  motives  may  force  a  man  into  violent  conflicts 
with  his  environment  ;  but  the  dramatic  art,  con- 
sidered in  general,  may  be  in  a  position  to  turn  such 
antagonisms  to  account.  He  who  from  a  desire  for 
gain,  robs,  steals,  murders,  counterfeits  ;  who  from 
cowardice,  acts  dishonorably  ;  who  through  stu- 
pidity, short-sightedness,  frivolity,  and  thoughtless- 
ness, becomes  smaller  and  weaker  than  his  relations 
demand, —  he  is  not  at  all  suitable  for  hero  of  a 
serious  play. 

If  a  poet  would  completely  degrade  his  art,  and 
turn  to  account  in  the  action  of  a  play  full  of  con- 


66   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

tention  and  evil  tendency,  the  social  perversion  of 
real  life,  the  despotism  of  the  rich,  the  torments  of 
the  oppressed,  the  condition  of  the  poor  who  receive 
from  society  only  suffering, — by  such  work  he 
would  probably  excite  the  sympathy  of  the  audi- 
ence to  a  high  degree  ;  but  at  the  end  of  the  play 
this  sympathy  would  sink  into  a  painful  discord. 
The  delineating  of  the  mental  processes  of  a  com- 
mon criminal  belongs  to  halls  where  trial  by  jury  is 
held  ;  efforts  for  the  improvement  of  the  poor  and 
oppressed  classes  should  be  an  important  part  of 
our  labor  in  real  life  ;  the  muse  of  art  is  no  sister  of 
mercy. 

VI. 
MOVEMENT  AND  RISE  OF  THE  ACTION. 

The  dramatic  action  must  represent  all  that  is  im- 
portant to  the  understanding  of  the  play,  in  the  strong 
excitement  of  the  characters,  and  in  a  continuously  pro- 
gressive increase  of  effects. 

The  action  must,  first  of  all,  be  capable  of  the 
strongest  dramatic  excitement ;  and  this  must  be 
universally  intelligible.  There  are  great  and  impor- 
tant fields  of  human  activity,  which  do  not  make 
the  growth  of  a  captivating  emotion,  a  passionate 
desire,  or  a  mighty  volition  easy  ;  and  again,  there 
are  violent  struggles  which  force  to  the  outside 
men's  mental  processes,  while  the  subject  of  the 
struggle  is  little  adapted  to  the  stage,  though  impor- 
tance and  greatness  are  not  lacking  to  it.  For 
example,  a  politic  prince,  who  negotiates  with  the 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  67 

powerful  ones  of  his  land,  who  wages  war  and  con- 
cludes peace  with  his  neighbors,  will  perhaps  do  all 
this  without  once  exhibiting  the  least  excited  pas- 
sion ;  and  if  this  does  come  to  light  as  secret  desire 
or  resentment  toward  others,  it  will  be  noticeable 
only  by  careful  observation,  and  in  little  ripples. 
But  even  when  it  is  allowed  to  represent  his  whole 
being  in  dramatic  suspense,  the  subject  of  his 
volition,  a  political  success  or  a  victory,  is  capable 
of  being  shown  only  very  imperfectly  and  fragmen- 
tarily  in  its  stage  setting.  And  the  scenes  in  which 
this  round  of  worldly  purposes  is  specially  active, 
state  trials,  addresses,  battles,  are  for  technical  rea- 
sons not  the  part  most  conveniently  put  on  the 
stage.  From  this  point  of  view,  warning  must  be 
given  against  putting  scenes  from  political  history 
on  the  boards.  Of  course  the  difficulties  which  this 
field  of  the  greatest  human  activity  offers,  are  not 
unsurmountable  ;  but  it  requires  not  only  maturity 
of  genius  but  very  peculiar  and  intimate  knowledge 
of  the  stage  to  overcome  them.  But  the  poet  will 
never  degrade  his  action  by  reducing  it  to  an  imper- 
fect and  insufficient  exposition  of  such  political 
deeds  and  aims  ;  he  will  need  to  make  use  of  a 
single  action,  or  a  small  number  of  actions,  as  a 
background,  before  which  he  presents  —  and  in  this 
he  is  infinitely  superior  to  the  historian  —  a  most 
minute  revelation  of  human  nature,  in  a  few  per- 
sonages, and  in  their  most  intimate  emotional  rela- 
tions with  each  other.  If  he  fails  to  do  this,  he  will 
in  so  far  falsify  history  without  creating  poetry. 


68   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

An  entirely  unfavorable  field  for  dramatic  mate- 
rial is  the  inward  struggles  which  the  inventor,  the 
artist,  the  thinker  has  to  suffer  with  himself  and 
with  his  time.  Even  if  he  is  a  reformer  by  nature, 
who  knows  how  to  impress  the  stamp  of  his  own 
spirit  on  thousands  of  others ;  indeed,  if  his  own 
material  misfortunes  may  lay  claim  to  unusual  sym- 
pathy, the  dramatist  will  not  willingly  conclude  to 
bring  him  forward  as  the  hero  of  the  action.  If  the 
mental  efforts,  the  mode  of  thought  of  such  a  hero, 
are  not  sufficiently  known  to  the  living  audience, 
then  the  poet  will  have  first  to  show  his  warrant  for 
such  a  character  by  artful  discourse,  by  a  fulness  of 
oral  explanation,  and  by  a  representation  of  spiritual 
import.  This  may  be  quite  as  difficult  as  it  is 
undramatic.  If  the  poet  presupposes  in  his  auditors 
a  living  interest  in  such  personages,  acquaintance 
with  the  incidents  of  their  lives,  and  makes  use  of 
this  interest  in  order  to  avail  himself  of  an  occur- 
rence in  the  life  of  such  a  hero,  he  falls  into  another 
danger.  -On  the  stage  the  good  which  is  known 
beforehand  of  a  man,  and  the  good  that  is  reported 
of  him,  have  no  value  at  all,  as  opposed  to  what  the 
hero  himself  does  on  the  stage.  Indeed,  the  great 
expectations  which  the  hearer  brings  with  him  in 
this  case,  may  be  prejudicial  to  the  unbiased  recep- 
tion of  the  action.  And  if  the  poet  succeeds,  as  is 
probable  in  the  case  of  popular  heroes,  in  promoting 
the  scenic  effects  through  the  already  awakened 
ardor  of  the  audience  for  the  hero,  he  must  credit 
his  success  to  the  interest  which  the  audience  brings 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  69 

with  it,  not  to  the  interest  which  the  drama  itself 
has  merited.  If  the  poet  is  conscientious,  he  will 
adopt  only  those  moments  from  the  life  of  the  artist, 
poet,  thinker,  in  which  he  shows  himself  active  and 
suffering  quite  as  significantly  toward  others  as  he 
was  in  his  studio.  It  is  clear  that  this  will  be  the 
case  only  by  accident ;  it  is  quite  as  clear  that  in 
such  a  case  it  will  be  only  an  accident,  if  the  hero 
bears  a  celebrated  name.  Therefore,  the  making 
use  of  anecdotes  from  the  life  of  such  great  men,  the 
meaning  of  which  does  not  show  itself  in  the  action 
but  in  the  non-represcntable  activity  of  their  labor- 
atory, is  intrinsically  right  undramatic.  The  great- 
ness in  them  is  non-representable ;  and  what  is 
represented  borrows  the  greatness  of  the  hero  from 
a  moment  of  his  life  lying  outside  the  piece.  The 
personality  of  Shakespeare,  Goethe,  Schiller,  is  in 
this  respect  worse  on  the  stage  than  in  a  novel  or 
romance,  and  all  the  worse  the  more  intimately  their 
lives  are  known. 

Of  course,  opinions  as  to  what  may  be  repre- 
sented on  the  stage,  and  what  is  effective,  are  not 
the  same  in  all  ages.  National  custom  as  well  as 
the  arrangement  of  the  theatre  direct  the  poet.  We 
have  no  longer  the  susceptibility  of  the  Greeks  to 
epic  narratives  which  are  brought  upon  the  scene 
by  a  messenger ;  we  have  greater  pleasure  in  what 
can  be  acted,  and  risk  upon  our  stage  the  imitation 
of  actions  which  would  have  appeared  entirely 
impossible  on  the  Athenian  stage,  in  spite  of  its 
machines,  its  devices  for  flying  and  its  perspective 


70       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

painting, —  popular  tumults,  collision  of  armies,  and 
the  like.  And  as  a  rule  the  later  poet  will  be 
inclined  to  do  too  much  rather  than  too  little  in  this 
direction. 

It  may  happen  to  him  rather  than  to  the  Greek, 
therefore,  that  through  full  elaboration  of  the  action, 
the  inner  perturbation  of  the  chief  figures  may  be 
disproportionately  restricted,  and  that  an  important 
transition,  a  portentous  series  of  moods,  remains 
unexpressed.  A  well  known  example  of  such  a 
defect  is  in  Prince  of  Hamburg,  the  very  piece  in 
which  the  poet  has  superbly  achieved  one  of  the 
most  difficult  scenic  tasks,  the  disposition  of  an 
army  for  battle  and  the  battle  itself.  The  prince 
has  taken  his  imprisonment  light-heartedly ;  when 
his  friend,  Hohenzollern,  brings  him  the  news  that 
his  death-warrant  is  awaiting  the  signature,  his  mood 
naturally  becomes  serious,  and  he  determines  to 
entreat  the  intercession  of  the  electoral  princess. 
And  in  the  next  scene,  the  young  hero  throws  him- 
self powerless,  and  without  self-control,  at  the  feet 
of  his  protectress,  because,  as  he  relates,  he  has 
seen  on  his  way  to  her,  men  digging  his  grave 
by  torchlight ;  he  begs  for  his  life,  though  he  may 
be  shamefully  degraded.  This  sudden  plunge  to  a 
cowardly  fear  of  death,  does  painful  violence  to  the 
character  of  a  general.  It  is  certainly  not  untrue  in 
itself,  even  if  we  unwillingly  tolerate  lack  of  self- 
control  in  a  general  under  such  circumstances.  And 
the  drama  demanded  the  severest  humiliation  of  the 
hero;  just  this  lack  of  courage  is  the  turning  point 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  71 

of  the  piece ;  in  his  confusion  he  must  plunge  down 
to  this,  in  order  to  redeem  himself  worthily  in  the 
second  part  of  the  action.  It  was  therefore  a  chief 
task  to  present  the  abasement  of  a  youthful  heroic 
nature  even  to  the  fear  of  death,  and  indeed,  in  such  a 
manner  that  the  sympathy  of  the  hearer  should  not  , 
be  dissipated  through  contempt.  That  could  happefi 
only  by  an  accurate  exhibition  of  the  inner  pertupa- 
tions,  even  to  the  bursting  forth  of  the  death 
anguish,  which  terminated  in  the  prostration  at  the 
princess's  feet — a  difficult  task  for  even  powerful 
poetic  genius,  but  one  which  must  be  performed. 
And  here  a  rule  may  be  mentioned,  which  has  force 
for  the  poet  as  well  as  for  the  actor :  it  is  pre- 
posterous to  hasten  over  parts  of  the  action  which 
for  any  reason  are  necessary  to  the  play,  but  have 
not  the  merit  of  pleasing  motives ;  on  the  con- 
trary, upon  such  passages,  the  highest  technical 
art  must  be  expended,  in  order  to  give  poetic  beauty 
to  what  is  in  itself  unsuitable.  Before  just  this 
kind  of  tasks,  the  artist  must  achieve  the  proud  feel- 
ing that  for  him  there  are  no  unconquerable 
difficulties. 

Another  case  in  which  the  forcing  forward  of  the 
chief  effect  has  been  neglected,  is  the  third  act  of 
Antony  and  Cleopatra.  A  defect  in  Shakespeare 
does  not,  indeed,  originate  in  want  of  insight,  nor 
in  haste.  The  striking  thing  is  that  the  piece  lacks 
climax.  Antony  has  withdrawn  from  Cleopatra,  has 
been  reconciled  with  Octavianus,  and  has  re-estab- 
lished his  authority.  But  the  spectator  has  long 


72   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

had  a  presentiment  that  he  will  return  to  Cleopatra. 
The  inner  necessity  of  this  relapse  is  amply  motived 
from  the  first  act.  Notwithstanding  this,  one  demands 
rightly  to  see  this  momentous  relapse,  with  its  vio- 
lent passions  and  mental  disturbances  ;  it  is  the 
point  on  which  all  that  has  gone  before  is  suspended, 
and  which  must  account  for  all  that  follows,  the 
degradation  of  Antony,  even  to  his  cowardly  flight, 
and  his  death.  And  yet,  it  is  presented  in  only  brief 
sections  ;  the  culmination  of  the  action  is  divided 
up  into  little  scenes,  and  the  joining  of  these  into 
one  well-executed  scene  was  the  more  desirable, 
because  the  important  occurrence  in  the  last  half  of 
the  play,  that  flight  of  Antony  from  the  naval  bat- 
tle, cannot  be  represented  on  the  stage,  but  can  be 
made  intelligible  only  through  the  short  account  of 
the  subordinate  commander  and  the  thrilling  strug- 
gle of  the  broken-down  hero  which  follows.7 

But  the  poet  has  not  the  task,  let  it  be  under- 
stood, of  representing  through  what  is  done  on  the 
stage  every  individual  impulse  which  is  necessary 
to  the  inner  connection  of  the  action  as  actually 
occurring.  Such  a  representation  of  accessories 
would  rather  conceal  the  essentials  than  make  them 
impressive,  by  taking  time  from  the  more  important ; 
it  would  also  divide  up  the  action  into  too  many 
parts  and  thereby  injure  the  effects.  Upon  our 
stage,  also,  many  heroic  accounts  of  events  are  nec- 
essary in  vivid  representation.  Since  they  always 
produce  resting  places  in  the  action,  however  excit- 
edly the  declaimer  may  speak,  the  law  applies  to 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  73 

them,  that  they  must  come  in  as  relief  from  a  strongly 
worked-up  suspense.  The  spectator  must  be  pre- 
viously aroused  by  the  excited  emotion  of  the  per- 
sons concerned.  The  length  of  the  narration  is  to 
be  carefully  calculated  ;  a  line  too  much,  the  least 
unnecessary  elaboration,  may  cause  weariness.  If 
the  narrative  contains  individual  parts  of  some 
extent,  it  must  be  divided  and  interspersed  with 
short  speeches  of  other  characters,  which  indicate 
the  narrator's  mood;  and  the  parts  must  be  carefully 
arranged  in  the  order  of  climax,  both  as  to  mean- 
ing and  style.  A  celebrated  example  of  excellent 
arrangement  is  the  Swedish  captain's  story  in  Wal- 
Icnstcin.  An  elaborate  narrative  must  not  occur 
when  the  action  is  moving  forward  with  energy  and 
rapidity. 

One  variety  of  messenger  scene  is  the  portrayal 
of  an  occurrence  thought  of  as  behind  the  scenes, 
when  the  persons  on  the  stage  are  represented  as 
observers;  also  the  presentation  of  an  occurrence 
from  the  impressions  which  it  has  made  on  the  char- 
acters. This  kind  of  recital  allows  more  easily  of 
dramatic  excitement  ;  it  may  be  almost  a  mere, 
tjuiet  narrative  ;  it  may  possibly  occasion  or  increase 
passionate  excitement  on  the  stage. 

The  grounds  upon  which  the  poet  has  some- 
thing happening  behind  the  scenes,  are  of  various 
kinds.  First  of  all,  occasion  is  given  by  unavoid- 
able incidents  which,  because  of  their  nature,  cannot 
be  represented  on  the  stage  at  all,  or  only  through 
elaborate  machinery  —  a  conflagration,  a  naval  bat- 


74       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

tie,  a  popular  tumult,  battles  of  cavalry  and  chariot- 
eers—  everything  in  which  the  mighty  forces  of 
nature  or  great  multitudes  of  men  are  active  in 
widespread  commotion.  The  effect  of  such  reflected 
impressions  may  be  greatly  enhanced  by  little  scenic 
indications  :  calls  from  without,  signals,  lurid  lights, 
thunder  and  lightning,  the  roar  of  cannon,  and  sim- 
ilar devices  which  excite  the  fancy,  and  the  appro- 
priateness of  which  is  easily  recognized  by  the 
hearer.  These  indications  and  shrewd  hints  of 
something  in  the  distance,  will  be  most  successful 
when  they  are  used  to  show  the  doings  of  men  ;  not 
so  favorable  are  the  representation  of  the  unusual 
operations  of  nature,  descriptions  of  landscape,  all 
spectacles  to  which  the  spectator  is  not  accustomed 
to  give  himself  over  before  the  stage.  In  such  a 
case  the  designed  effect  may  entirely  fail,  because 
the  audience  is  accustomed  to  strive  against  attempts 
to  produce  strange  illusions. 

This  representation  of  mirrored  impressions,  the 
laying  a  part  of  the  action  behind  the  scene,  has 
peculiar  significance  for  the  drama  in  moments  when 
what  is  frightful,  terrifying,  or  horrible  is  to  be 
exhibited.  If  it  is  desired  by  the  present-day  poet 
that  he  should  follow  the  example  of  the  Greeks, 
and  discreetly  lay  the  decisive  moment  of  a  hideous 
deed  as  much  as  possible  behind  the  scenes,  and 
bring  it  to  light  only  through  the  impressions  which 
it  makes  on  the  minds  of  those  concerned,  then  an 
objection  must  be  made  against  this  restriction  in 
favor  of  the  newer  art;  for  an  imposing  deed  is 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  75 

sometimes  of  the  greatest  effect  on  our  stage,  and 
is  indispensable  to  the  action.  First,  if  the  dra- 
matically presentable  individual  parts  of  the  deed 
give  significance  to  what  follows  ;  next,  if  we  recog- 
nize in  such  a  deed  the  sudden  culmination  of  an 
inner  process  just  perfected  ;  third,  if  only  through 
the  contemplation  of  the  action  itself  the  spectators 
may  be  convinced  how  the  affair  really  happened, 
—  nowhere  need  we  fear  the  effects  on  the  stage,  of 
death,  murder,  violent  collision  of  figures,  though 
in  themselves  not  the  highest  effects  of  the  drama. 
While  the  Greek  stage  was  developed  out  of  a  lyric 
representation  of  passionate  emotions,  the  German 
has  arisen  from  the  epic  delineation  of  events.  Both 
have  preserved  some  traditions  of  their  oldest  con- 
ditions ;  the  Greek  remained  just  as  inclined  to  keep 
in  the  background  the  moment  of  the  deed,  as  the 
Germans  rejoiced  to  picture  fighting  and  rapine. 

But  if  the  Greeks  avoided  violent  physical 
efforts,  blows,  attacks,  wrestlings,  overthrows,  per- 
haps not  the  foresight  of  the  poet,  but  the  need  of 
the  actors  was  the  ultimate  reason.  The  Greek 
theatre  costume  was  very  inconvenient  for  violent 
movements  of  the  body  ;  the  falling  of  a  dying  per- 
son in  the  cothurnus  must  be  gradual  and  very 
carefully  managed  if  it  would  not  be  ridiculous. 
"  And  the  mask  took  away  any  possibility  of  repre- 
senting the  expression  of  the  countenance,  indispen- 
sable in  the  moments  of  highest  suspense.  /£schy- 
lus  appears  to  have  undertaken  something  also  in 
this  direction  ;  and  the  shrewd  Sophocles  went  just 


76   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

as  far  as  he  dared.  He  ventured  to  have  even 
Antigone  dragged  by  an  armed  force  from  the  grove 
of  Colonos,  but  he  did  not  venture,  in  Electra,  to 
have  ./Egisthos  killed  on  the  stage  ;  Orestes  and 
Pylades  must  pursue  him  with  drawn  swords  behind 
the  scenes.  Perhaps  Sophocles  perceived,  as  well 
as  we,  that  in  such  a  place  this  was  a  disadvantage, 
a  restriction  which  was  laid  upon  him  by  the  leather 
and  padding  of  his  actors,  and,  too,  by  the  religious 
horror  which  the  Greeks  felt  for  the  moment  of 
death.  Then  this  is  one  of  the  places  in  the  drama 
where  the  spectator  must  see  that  the  action  com- 
pletes itself.  Even  if  pursued  by  two  men,  &gis- 
thos  could  either  have  defended  himself  against 
them  or  have  escaped  them. 

Through  the  greater  ease  and  energy  of  our  imi- 
tation, we  are  freed  from  such  considerations;  and  in 
our  pieces,  numerous  effects,  great  and  small,  rest  on 
the  supreme  moment  of  action.  The  scene  in  which 
Coriolanus  embraces  Aufidius  before  the  household 
altar  of  the  Volscians,  receives  its  full  significance 
only  through  the  battle  scene  in  the  first  act,  in 
which  the  embittered  antagonists  are  seen  to  punish 
each  other.  The  contest  is  necessary  between  Prince 
Henry  and  Percy.  And  again  in  Love  and  Intrigue, 
how  indispensable,  according  to  the  premises,  is  the 
death  of  the  two  lovers  on  the  stage.  In  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  how  indispensable  the  death  of  Tybalt,  of 
Paris,  and  of  the  loving  pair,  before  the  eyes  of  the 
spectators.  Could  we  believe  it,  were  Emilia  Galotti 
stabbed  by  her  father  behind  the  scenes?  And 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  77 

would  it  be  possible  to  dispense  with  the  great  scene 
in  which  Caesar  was  murdered? 

On  the  other  hand,  again,  there  is  an  entire  series 
of  great  effects,  when  the  deed  itself  does  not 
busy  the  eye,  but  is  so  concealed  that  the  attend- 
ing circumstances  stimulate  the  imagination,  and 
cause  the  terrible  to  be  felt  through  those  impres- 
sions which  fall  into  the  soul  of  the  hero.  Wherever 
there  is  room  to  make  impressive  the  moments 
preparatory  to  a  deed ;  wherever  the  deed  does  not 
enter  into  the  sudden  excitement  of  the  hero  ; 
finally,  wherever  it  is  more  useful  to  excite  horror, 
and  hold  in  suspense,  than  sorrowfully  to  relax 
excited  suspense,  —  the  poet  will  do  well  to  have 
the  deed  itself  performed  behind  the  scenes.  We 
are  indebted  to  such  a  concealment  for  many  of  the 
most  powerful  effects  which  have  been  produced  at 
all.  When  in  the  Agamemnon  of  ^schylus,  the  cap- 
tive Cassandra  announces  the  individual  circum- 
stances of  the  murder  which  occurs  in  the  house ; 
when  Electra,  as  the  death  shrieks  of  Clytemnestra 
press  upon  the  stage,  cries  to  her  brother  behind  the 
scene,  "Strike  once  more  !"-  —  the  fearful  power  of 
these  effects  has  never  been  surpassed.  Not  less 
magnificent  is  the  murdering  of  King  Duncan  in 
Macbeth  —  the  delineating  of  the  murderer's  frame  of 
mind  before  and  after  the  deed. 

For  the  German  stage,  the  suspense,  the  unde- 
fined horror,  the  unearthly,  the  exciting,  produced 
by  skilful  treatment,  through  this  concealing  of 
momentous  deeds,  are  especially  to  be  esteemed  in 


78   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  part  of  the  action  tending  toward  climax.  In 
the  more  rapid  course  and  the  more  violent  excite- 
ment of  the  second  part,  they  will  not  be  so  easily 
made  use  of.  At  the  last  exit  of  the  hero,  they  can 
be  used  only  in  cases  where  the  moment  of  death 
itself  is  not  capable  of  presentation  on  the  stage, — 
execution  on  the  scaffold,  military  execution,  and 
where  the  impossibility  of  any  other  solution  is  a 
matter  of  course,  on  account  of  the  undoubtedly 
greater  strength  of  the  death-dealing  antagonist. 
An  interesting  example  of  this  is  the  last  act  of 
Wallenstein.  The  gloomy  figure  of  Buttler,  the 
soliciting  of  the  murderers,  the  drawing  together  of 
the  net  about  the  unsuspecting  one, — all  this  is 
impressed  upon  the  soul  of  the  spectator,  in  a  long 
and  powerfully  exciting  climax  ;  after  such  a  prepar- 
ation, the  accomplishment  of  the  murder  itself  would 
not  add  intensity ;  one  sees  the  murderer  press  into 
the  sleeping  room  ;  the  creaking  of  the  last  door,  the 
clanking  of  arms,  the  succeeding  sudden  silence, 
hold  the  imagination  in  the  same  unearthly  suspense 
which  colors  the  whole  act;  and  the  slow  awakening 
of  the  fancy,  the  anxious  expectation,  and  the  last 
concealment  of  the  deed  itself,  are  exceedingly  well 
adapted  to  what  is  visionary  and  mysterious  in  the 
inspired  hero,  as  Schiller  has  conceived  him. 

The  poet  has  not  only  to  exhibit,  but  as  well  to 
keep  silence.  First  of  all,  there  are  certain  illogical 
ingredients  of  the  material,  which  the  greatest  art 
is  not  able  always  to  manage,  —  this  will  be  further 
treated  in  the  discussion  of  dramatic  rmterial. 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  79 

Then  there  is  the  repulsive,  the  disgusting,  the 
hideous,  all  that  shocks  dramatic  taste,  which 
depends  on  the  crudeness  of  otherwise  serviceable 
material ;  what,  in  this  respect  may  be  repugnant 
to  art,  the  artist  must  himself  feel ;  it  cannot  be 
taught  him. 

But  further,  the  poet  must  continually  heighten 
his  effects  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  his 
play.  The  listener  is  not  the  same  in  every  part  of 
the  performance.  At  the  beginning  of  the  piece, 
he  acquiesces  with  readiness,  as  a  rule,  in  what  is 
offered,  and  with  slight  demands ;  and  as  soon  as 
the  poet  has  shown  his  power  by  some  respectable 
effect,  and  has  shown  his  manly  judgment,  through 
his  language,  and  a  firm  kind  of  characterization,  the 
hearer  is  inclined  to  yield  himself  confidently  to  the 
poet's  leading.  This  frame  of  mind  lasts  till  toward 
the  climax  of  the  piece.  But  in  the  further  course, 
the  listener  becomes  more  exacting;  his  capability 
for  receiving  what  is  new  becomes  less ;  the  effects 
enjoyed  have  been  exciting  more  powerfully,  have 
in  many  respects  afforded  satisfaction ;  with  increas- 
ing suspense,  comes  impatience ;  with  the  greater 
number  of  impressions  received,  weariness  comes 
more  easily.  With  all  this  in  view,  the  poet  must 
carefully  arrange  every  part  of  his  action.  Indeed, 
so  far  as  the  import  of  the  play  is  concerned,  he 
need  not,  with  a  skilful  arrangement  of  tolerable 
material,  be  anxious  about  the  listener's  increasing 
interest.  But  he  must  see  to  it,  that  the  perform- 
ance becomes  gradually  greater  and  more  impres- 


8o   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

sive.  During  the  first  acts,  in  general,  a  light  and 
brief  treatment  may  be  made  possible ;  and  here 
sometimes  the  heavy  exaction  is  laid  on  the  poet, 
perhaps  even  to  moderate  a  great  effect ;  but  the 
last  acts  from  the  climax  on,  require  the  summon- 
ing of  all  his  resources.  It  is  not  a  matter  of 
indifference,  where  a  scene  is  placed,  whether  a 
messenger  recites  his  narrative  in  the  first  or  in  the 
fourth  act,  whether  an  effect  closes  the  second  or 
the  fourth  act.  It  was  wise  foresight  that  made  the 
conspiracy  scene  in  Julius  Ccesar  so  brief,  in  order 
not  to  prejudice  the  climax  of  the  piece,  and  the 
great  tent  scene. 

Another  means  of  heightening  effects  lies  in  the 
multiplicity  of  moods  that  may  be  aroused,  and  of 
characters  which  may  bear  forward  the  action. 
Every  piece,  as  has  been  said,  has  a  ground  mood, 
which  may  be  compared  to  a  musical  chord  or  a 
color.  From  this  controlling  color,  there  is  neces- 
sary a  wealth  of  shadings,  as  well  as  of  contrasts. 
In  many  cases  the  poet  does  not  find  it  essential  to 
make  this  necessity  apparent  by  cool  investigation ; 
for  it  is  an  unwritten  law  of  all  artistic  creation, 
that  anything  discovered  suggests  its  opposite, — the 
chief  character,  his  counterpart,  one  scene  effect, 
that  which  contrasts  with  it.  Among  the  Germans, 
particularly,  there  is  need  that  they  fondly  and  care- 
fully infuse  into  everything  which  they  create,  a  cer- 
tain totality  of  their  feeling.  Yet,  during  the  work, 
the  critical  examination  of  the  figures,  which  by 
natural  necessity  have  challenged  one  another,  will 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  81 

supply  many  important  gaps.  For  in  our  plays, 
rich  in  figures,  it  is  easily  possible,  by  means  of  a 
subordinate  figure,  to  give  a  coloring  which  materi- 
ally aids  the  whole.  Even  Sophocles  is  to  be 
admired  for  the  certainty  and  delicacy  with  which, 
in  every  tragedy,  he  counterbalances  the  one-sided- 
ness  of  some  of  his  characters,  by  means  of  the  sug- 
gested opposites.  In  Euripides,  again,  this  feeling 
for  harmony  is  very  weak.  All  great  poets  of  the 
Germanic  race,  from  Shakespeare  to  Schiller,  con- 
sidered all  together,  create,  in  this  direction,  with 
admirable  firmness ;  and  in  their  works  we  seldom 
find  a  character  which  is  not  demanded  by  a  coun- 
terpart, but  is  introduced  through  cool  deliberation, 
like  Parricida  in  William  Tell.  It  is  a  peculiarity  of 
Kleist  that  his  supplementary  characters  come  to 
him  indistinctly ;  here  and  there  arbitrariness  or 
license  violates,  in  the  ground  lines  of  his  figures. 

From  this  internal  throng  of  scenic  contrasts  in 
the  action,  there  has  originated  what,  to  the  Ger- 
mans, is  the  favorite  scene  of  tragedy  —  the  lumin- 
ous and  fervid  part  which,  as  a  rule,  embraces  the 
touching  moments,  in  contrast  with  the  thrilling 
moments  of  the  chief  action.  These  scenic  con- 
trasts, however,  are  produced  not  only  through  a 
variation  of  meaning,  but  also  through  a  change  of 
amplified  and  concise  scenes,  of  scenes  of  two,  and 
of  many  persons.  Among  the  Greeks,  scenes  moved 
in  a  much  narrower  circle,  both  as  to  matter  and 
form.  The  variation  is  made  in  this  way  :  the  scenes 
have  a  peculiar,  regular,  recurring  construction,  each 


82   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

according  to  its  contents ;  dialogues  and  messenger 
scenes  are  interrupted  by  pathos  scenes ;  for  each  of 
these  kinds  there  arose,  in  essentials,  an  established 
form. 

Not  only  sharp  contrast,  but  the  repetition  of  the 
same  scenic  motive,  may  produce  a  heightened 
effect,  as  well  through  parallelism  as  through  fine 
contrarieties  in  things  otherwise  similar.  In  this 
case,  the  poet  must  give  diligent  care,  that  he  lay 
peculiar  charm  in  the  returning  motive,  and  that 
before  the  recurrence,  he  arouse  suspense  and  enjoy- 
ment in  the  motive.  And  in  this  he  will  not  be 
allowed  to  neglect  the  law,  that  on  the  stage,  in  the 
last  part  of  the  action,  even  very  fine  work  will  not 
easily  suffice  to  produce  heightened  effects  by 
means  already  used,  provided  the  same  receive  a 
broader  elaboration.  There  is  special  danger  if  the 
performer  wants  the  peculiar  art  of  setting  in  strong 
contrast  the  repeated  motive,  and  one  that  has  pre- 
ceded it.  Shakespeare  is  fond  of  repeating  a  motive 
to  heighten  effects.  A  good  example  is  the  heavy 
sleepiness  of  Lucius  in  Julius  Casar,  which  in  the 
oath  scene  shows  the  contrast  in  the  temper  of  the 
master  and  the  servant,  and  in  the  tent  scene  is 
repeated  almost  word  for  word.  The  second  sound- 
ing of  the  chord  has  to  introduce  the  ghost  here, 
and  its  soft  minor  tone  reminds  the  hearer  very 
pleasingly  of  that  unfortunate  night  and  Brutus's 
guilt.  Similarly,  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  the  repetition 
of  the  deed  with  fatal  result,  works  as  well  through 
consonance  as  through  contrasted  treatment.  Fur- 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  83 

ther,  in  Othello,  the  splendid  recurring  variations  of 
the  same  theme  in  the  little  scenes  between  lago 
and  Roderigo.  But  success  with  these  effects  is 
not  always  accorded  to  even  great  poets.  The  repe- 
tition of  the  weird-sister  motive,  in  the  second  half 
of  Macbeth,  is  no  strengthening  of  the  effect.  The 
ghostly  resists,  indeed,  a  more  ample  elaboration  in 
the  second  place.  A  very  remarkable  example  of 
such  a  repetition  is  the  repeated  wooing  of  Richard 
III.,  the  scene  at  the  bier,  and  the  interview  with 
Elizabeth  Rivers.8  That  the  repetition  stands  here 
as  a  significant  characterizing  of  Richard,  and  that 
a  strong  effect  is  intended,  is  perfectly  clear  from 
the  great  art  and  full  amplification  of  both  scenes. 
The  second  scene,  also,  is  treated  with  greater  fond- 
ness ;  the  poet  has  made  use  of  a  technique,  new  to 
to  him,  but  very  fine ;  he  has  treated  it  according 
to  antique  models,  giving  to  speech  and  response 
the  same  number  of  lines.  And  our  criticism  is 
accustomed  to  account  for  a  special  beauty  of  the 
great  drama  from  this  scene.  It  is  certainly  a  dis- 
advantage on  the  stage.  The  monstrous  action 
presses  already  toward  the  end,  with  a  power  which 
takes  from  the  spectator  the  capability  of  enjoying 
the  extended  and  artistic  battle  of  words  in  this 
interview.  A  similar  disadvantage  for  our  specta- 
tors, is  the  thrice-repeated  casket  scene  in  the 
Merchant  of  Venice.  The  dramatic  movement  of 
the  first  two  scenes  is  inconsiderable,  and  the  ele- 
gance in  the  speeches  of  those  choosing  has  not 
sufficient  charm.  Shakespeare  might  gladly  allow 


84   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

himself  such  rhetorical  niceties,  because  his  more 
constant  audience  found  peculiar  pleasure  in  polite, 
cultured  discourse. 

VII. 
WHAT  IS  TRAGIC  ? 

It  is  well  known  how  busily  the  German  poets 
since  Lessing's  time,  have  been  occupied  in  explor- 
ing that  mysterious  property  of  the  drama  which  is 
called  the  tragic.  It  should  be  the  quality  which  'v 
the  poet's  moral  theory  of  life  deposits  in  the  piece  ; 
and  the  poet  should  be,  through  moral  influences,  a 
fashioner  of  his  time.  The  tragic  should  be  an 
ethical  force  with  which  the  poet  has  to  fill  his 
action  and  his  characters  ;  and  in  this  case,  there  have 
been  only  diverse  opinions  as  to  the  essential  nature 
of  dramatic  ethical  force.  The  expressions,  tragic 
guilt,  inner  purification,  poetic  justice,  have  become 
convenient  watchwords  of  criticism,  conveying,  how- 
ever, a  different  meaning  to  different  persons.  BuFl 
in  this  all  agree,  that  the  tragic  effect  of  the  drama  I 
depends  on  the  manner  in  which  the  poet  conducts 
his  characters  through  the  action,  portions  their  fate 
to  them,  and  guides  and  terminates  the  struggle  of 
their  one-sided  desire  against  opposing  forces. 

Since  the  poet  with  freedom  joins  the  parts  of 
his  action  so  as  to  produce  unity,  and  since  he  pro- 
duces this  unity  by  setting  together  the  individual 
elements  of  the  represented  events  in  rational,  inter- 
nal consistency,  it  is,  of  course,  clear  that  the  poet's 
representations  of  human  freedom  and  dependence, 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  85 

his  comprehension  of  the  general  consistency  of  all 
things,  his  view  of  Providence  and  destiny,  must  be 
expressed  in  a  poetic  invention,  which  derives  from 
the  inner  nature  of  some  important  personage  sus- 
taining great  relations,  his  deeds  and  his  sorrows.  It 
is  further  plain  that  it  devolves  on  the  poet  to  con- 
duct this  struggle  to  such  a  close  as  shall  not  shock 
the  humanity  and  the  reason  of  the  hearer,  but 
shall  satisfy  it  ;  and  that  for  the  good  effect  of  his 
drama,  it  is  not  at  all  a  matter  of  indifference  whether 
in  deducing  guilt  from  the  soul  of  the  hero,  and  in 
deriving  retribution  from  the  compelling  force  of 
the  action,  he  shows  himself  a  man  of  good  judg- 
ment and  just  feeling.  But  it  is  quite  evident  that 
the  feeling  and  judgment  of  poets  have  been  quite 
unlike  in  different  centuries,  and  in  individual  poets, 
cannot  be  graduated  in  the  same  manner.  Mani- 
festly he  who  has  developed  in  his  own  life  a  high 
degree  of  culture,  a  comprehensive  knowledge  of 
men,  and  a  manly  character,  will,  according  to  the 
view  of  his  contemporaries,  best  direct  the  destiny 
of  his  hero  ;  for  what  shines  forth  from  the  drama 
is  only  the  reflection  of  the  poet's  own  conception 
of  the  great  world-relations.  It  cannot  be  taught ; 
it  cannot  be  inserted  into  a  single  drama  like  a  role 
or  a  scene. 

Therefore,  in  answer  to  the  question,  how  the 
poet  must  compose  his  action  so  that  it  may  be 
tragic  in  this  sense,  the  advice,  meant  in  all  serious- 
ness, is  given  that  he  need  trouble  himself  very  little 
about  it.  He  must  develop  in  himself  a  capable 


86   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

and  worthy  manhood,  then  go  with  glad  heart  to  a 
subject  which  offers  strong  characters  in  great  con- 
flict, and  leave  to  others  the  high-sounding  words, 
guilt  and  purification,  refining  and  elevating.  Unset- 
tled must  is  sometimes  put  into  bottles  worthy  of 
the  purest  wine.  What  is,  in  truth,  dramatic  will 
have  an  earnest  tragic  effect  in  a  strongly  moving 
action  if  it  was  a  man  who  wrote  it ;  if  not,  then 
assuredly  not. 

The  poet's  own  character  determines  the  highest 
effects  in  an  elevated  drama  more  than  in  any  other 
species  of  art.  But  the  error  of  former  art  theories 
has  been  that  they  have  sought  to  explain  from  the 
morale  or  ethics  of  the  drama  the  combined  effect 
in  which  sonorousness  of  words,  gesture,  costume, 
and  not  much  else,  are  concerned. 

The  word,  tragic,  is  used  by  the  poet  in  two 
different  meanings  ;  it  denotes,  first,  the  peculiar 
general  effect  which  a  successful  drama  of  elevated 
character  produces  upon  the  soul  of  the  spectator  ; 
and,  second,  a  definite  kind  of  dramatic  causes  and 
effects  which  in  certain  parts  of  the  drama  are 
either  useful  or  indispensable.  The  first  is  the 
physiological  signification  of  the  expression  ;  the 
second,  a  technical  denotation. 

To  the  Greeks,  a  certain  peculiarity  in  the  aggre- 
gate effect  of  the  drama  was  well  known.  Aristotle 
has  sharply  observed  the  special  influence  of  the 
dramatic  effects  on  the  life  of  the  spectators,  and 
has  understood  them  to  be  a  characteristic  property 
of  the  drama  ;  so  that  he  has  included  them  in  his 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  87 

celebrated  definition  of  tragedy.  This  explanation, 
"  Tragedy  is  artistic  remodeling  of  a  worthy,  undi- 
vided, complete  event,  which  has  magnitude,"  and 
so  forth,  closes  with  the  words,  "  and  effects  through 
pity  and  fear  the  purification  of  such  passions."  In 
another  place,  he  explains  in  detail  (Rhetoric,  II.  8) 
what  pity  is,  and  how  it  may  be  awakened.  Awak- 
ening pity  is  to  him  exhibiting  the  whole  realm  of 
human  sorrows,  circumstances,  and  actions,  the  obser- 
vation of  which  produces  what  we  call  emotion  and 
strong  agitation.  The  word  purification  {katharsis}, 
however,  which  as  an  expression  of  the  old  healing 
art,  denoted  the  removal  of  diseased  matter,  and,  as 
an  expression  of  divine  worship,  denoted  the  purging 
of  man  by  atonement  from  what  polluted,  is  evi- 
dently an  art  term  adopted  by  him  for  the  proper 
effect  of  tragedy  on  the  hearer.  These  peculiar 
effects  which  the  critical  observer  perceived  upon 
his  contemporaries,  are  not  entirely  the  same  which 
the  representation  of  a  great  dramatic  masterpiece 
produces  upon  our  audience,  but  they  are  closely 
related  ;  and  it  is  worth  while  to  notice  the  differ- 
ence. 

Any  one  who  has  ever  observed  the  influence  of  a 
tragedy  upon  himself,  must  have  noticed  with  aston- 
ishment how  the  emotion  and  perturbation  caused 
by  the  excitement  of  the  characters,  joined  with  the 
mighty  suspense  which  the  continuity  of  the  action 
produces,  take  hold  upon  his  nerves.  Far  more 
easily  than  in  real  life  the  tears  flow,  the  lips  twitch  ; 
this  pain,  however,  is  at  the  same  time  accompanied 


88   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

with  intense  enjoyment,  while  the  hearer  experi- 
ences immediately  after  the  hero,  the  same  thoughts, 
sorrows,  calamities,  with  great  vividness,  as  if  they 
were  his  own.  He  has  in  the  midst  of  the  most 
violent  excitement,  the  consciousness  of  unrestricted 
liberty,  which  at  the  same  time  raises  him  far  above 
the  incidents  through  which  his  capacity  to  receive 
impressions  seems  to  be  levied  upon.  After  the 
fall  of  the  curtain,  in  spite  of  the  intense  strain  which 
he  has  been  under  for  hours,  he  will  be  aware  of  a 
rebound  of  vital  force;  his  eye  brightens,  his  step  is 
elastic,  every  movement  firm  and  free.  The  dread 
and  commotion  are  followed  by  a  feeling  of  security  ; 
in  his  mental  processes  of  the  next  hour,  there  is  a 
greater  elevation  ;  in  his  collocation  of  words, 
emphatic  force  ;  the  aggregate  production,  now  his 
own,  has  raised  him  to  a  high  pitch.  The  radiance 
of  broader  views  and  more  powerful  feeling  which 
has  come  into  his  soul,  lies  like  a  transfiguration 
upon  his  being.  This  remarkable  affection  of  body 
and  soul,  this  elevation  above  the  moods  of  the  day, 
this  feeling  of  unrestrained  comfort  after  great  agi- 
tation, is  exactly  what,  in  the  modern  drama,  corre- 
sponds to  Aristotle's  "  purification."  There  is  no 
doubt  that  such  a  consequence  of  scenic  exhibitions 
among  the  finely  cultured  Greeks,  after  a  ten  hours' 
suspense,  through  the  most  powerful  effects,  came 
out  all  the  more  heightened  and  more  striking. 

The  elevating  influence  of  the  beautiful,  upon 
the  soul,  is  no  entirely  unusual  art;  but  the  peculiar 
effect  which  is  produced  by  a  union  of  pain,  horror, 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  89 

and  pleasure,  with  a  great,  sustained  effort  of  the 
fancy  and  the  judgment,  and  through  the  perfect 
satisfying  of  our  demands  for  a  rational  consistency 
in  all  things, — this  is  the  prerogative  of  the  art  of 
dramatic  poetry  alone.  The  penetrating  force  of 
this  dramatic  effect  is,  with  the  majority  of  people, 
greater  than  the  force  of  effects  produced  by  any 
other  form  of  art.  Only  music  is  able  to  make  its 
influence  more  powerfully  felt  upon  the  nerves  ;  but 
the  thrill  which  the  musical  tone  evokes,  falls  rather 
within  the  sphere  of  immediate  emotions,  which  are 
not  transfigured  into  thought  ;  they  are  more  rapt- 
urous, less  inspired. 

Naturally  the  effects  of  the  drama  are  no  longer 
the  same  with  us  as  they  were  in  Aristotle's  time. 
He,  himself,  makes  that  clear  to  us.  He  who  knew 
so  well  that  the  action  is  the  chief  thing  in  the 
drama,  and  that  Euripides  composed  his  actions 
badly,  yet  called  him  the  most  tragic  of  the  poets, 
that  is,  one  who  knew  how  to  produce  most  power- 
fully the  effects  peculiar  to  a  play.  Upon  us,  how- 
ever, scarcely  a  play  of  Euripides  produces  any 
general  effect,  however  powerfully  the  stormy  com- 
motions of  the  hero's  soul,  in  single  ones  of  his  bet- 
ter plays,  thrill  us.  Whence  comes  this  diversity  of 
conception?  Euripides  was  a  master  in  represent- 
ing excited  passion,  with  too  little  regard  for  sharply 
defined  personages  and  rational  consistency  of  the 
action.  The  Greek  drama  arose  from  a  union  of 
music  and  lyric  poetry  ;  from  Aristotle's  time  for- 
ward, it  preserved  something  of  its  first  youth.  The 


9o   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

musical  element  remained,  not  in  the  choruses,  but 
the  rhythmical  language  of  the  hero  easily  rose  to 
climaxes  in  song;  and  the  climaxes  were  frequently 
characterized  by  fully  elaborated  pathos  scenes. 
The  aggregate  effect  of  the  old  tragedy  stood 
between  that  of  our  opera  and  our  drama,  perhaps 
still  nearer  the  opera;  it  retained  something  of  the 
powerful  inflammatory  influence  of  music. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  was  another  effect  of 
the  ancient  tragedy,  only  imperfectly  developed, 
which  is  indispensable  to  our  tragedy.  The  dra- 
matic ideas  and  actions  of  the  Greeks  lacked  a 
rational  conformity  to  the  laws  of  nature,  that  is, 
such  a  connecting  of  events  as  would  be  perfectly 
accounted  for  by  the  disposition  and  one-sidedness 
of  the  characters.  We  have  become  free  men,  we 
recognize  no  fate  on  the  stage  but  such  as  proceeds 
from  the  nature  of  the  hero  himself.  The  modern 
poet  has  to  prepare  for  the  hearer  the  proud  joy, 
that  the  world  into  which  he  introduces  him  corre- 
sponds throughout  to  the  ideal  demands  which  the 
heart  and  judgment  of  the  hearerset  up  in  comparison 
with  the  events  of  reality.  Human  reason  appears 
in  the  new  drama,  as  agreeing  with  and  identical 
with  divine  ;  it  remodels  all  that  is  incomprehensible 
in  the  order  of  nature,  according  to  the  need  of 
our  spirit  and  heart.  This  peculiarity  of  the  action 
specially  strengthens  for  the  spectator  of  the  best 
modern  plays,  beautiful  transparence  and  joyous 
elevation  ;  it  helps  to  make  himself  for  hours 
stronger,  nobler,  freer.  Here  is  the  point  in  which 


THE    DRAMATIC  ACTION.  91 

the  character  of  the  modern  poet,  his  frank  manli- 
ness, exercises  greater  influence  upon  the  aggregate 
effect  than  in  ancient  times. 

The  Attic  poet  also  sought  this  unity  of  the 
divine  and  the  rational ;  but  it  was  very  difficult  for 
him  to  find  it.  This  boldly  tragical,  of  course,  shines 
forth  in  single  dramas  of  the  ancient  world.  And 
that  can  be  explained ;  for  the  vital  laws  of  poetical 
creation  control  the  poet  long  before  criticism  has 
found  rules  for  it ;  and  in  his  best  hours,  the  poet 
may  receive  an  inward  freedom  and  expansion 
which  raise  him  far  above  the  restrictions  of  his 
time.  Sophocles  directed  the  character  and  fate  of 
his  heroes  sometimes,  almost  in  the  Germanic 
fashion.  In  general,  however,  the  Greeks  did  not 
free  themselves  from  a  servitude  which  seems  to  us, 
in  the  highest  art  effects,  a  serious  defect.  The  epic 
source  of  their  subjects  was  thoroughly  unfavorable 
for  the  free  direction  of  their  heroes'  destiny.  An 
incomprehensible  fate  reached  from  without  into 
their  action ;  prophecies  and  oracular  utterances 
influence  the  conclusion;  accidental  misfortunes 
strike  the  heroes ;  misdeeds  of  parents  control  the 
destiny  of  later  generations ;  personifications  of 
deity  enter  the  action  as  friends  and  as  enemies ; 
between  what  excites  their  rage  and  the  punish- 
ments which  they  decree,  there  is,  according  to 
human  judgment,  no  consistency,  much  less  a  rational 
relation.  The  partiality  and  arbitrariness  with  which 
they  rule,  is  frightful  and  terrifying;  and  when  they 
occasionally  grant  a  mild  reconciliation,  they  remain 


92   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

like  something  foreign,  not  belonging  here.  In 
contrast  to  such  cold  excess  of  power,  meek-spirited 
modesty  of  man  is  the  highest  wisdom.  Whoever 
means  to  stand  firmly  by  himself  in  his  own  might, 
falls  first  before  a  mysterious  power  which  annihi- 
lates the  guilty  as  well  as  the  innocent.  With  this 
conception,  which  in  its  ultimate  foundation  was 
gloomy,  sad,  devouring,  there  remained  to  the  Greek 
poet  only  the  means  of  putting  even  into  the  char- 
acters of  his  fettered  heroes,  something  that  to  a 
certain  degree  would  account  for  the  horrors  which 
they  must  endure.  The  great  art  of  Sophocles  is 
shown,  among  other  things,  in  the  way  he  gives 
coloring  to  his  personages.  But  this  wise  disposi- 
tion of  characters  does  not  always  extend  far  enough 
to  establish  the  course  of  their  destiny  ;  it  remains 
not  seldom  an  inadequate  motive.  The  greatness 
which  the  ancients  produced,  lay  first  of  all  in  the 
force  of  passions,  then  in  the  fierceness  of  the  strug- 
gles through  which  their  heroes  were  overthrown, 
finally  in  the  intensity,  unfeelingness,  and  inexora- 
bleness,  with  which  they  made  their  characters  do 
and  suffer. 

The  Greeks  felt  very  well  that  it  was  not  advis- 
able to  dismiss  the  spectator  immediately  after  such 
effects  of  the  efforts  of  the  beautiful  art.  They 
therefore  closed  the  exhibition  of  the  day  with  a 
parody,  in  which  they  treated  the  serious  heroes  of 
the  tragedy  with  insolent  jest,  and  whimsically  imi- 
tated their  struggles.  The  burlesque  was  the 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  93 

external  means  of  affording  the  recreation  which 
lies  for  us  in  the  tragedy  itself. 

From  these  considerations,  the  last  sentence  of 
Aristotle's  definition,  not  indeed  without  limitation, 
avails  for  our  drama.  For  him  as  well  as  for  us,  the 
chief  effect  of  the  drama  is  the  disburdening  of  the 
hearer  from  the  sad  and  confining  moods  of  the  day, 
which  come  to  us  through  wretchedness  and  what- 
ever causes  apprehension  in  the  world.  But  when 
in  another  place,  he  knows  how  to  account  for  this, 
on  the  ground  that  man  needs  to  see  himself  touched 
and  shaken,  and  that  the  powerful  pacifying  and 
satisfying  of  this  desire  gives  him  inward  freedom, 
this  explanation  is,  indeed,  not  unintelligible  to  us; 
but  it  accepts  as  the  ultimate  inner  reason  for  this 
need  pathological  circumstances,  where  we  recognize 
a  joyous  emotional  activity  of  the  hearer. 

The  ultimate  ground  of  every  great  effect  of  the 
drama  lies  not  in  the  necessity  of  the  spectator 
passively  to  receive  impressions,  but  in  his  never- 
ceasing  and  irresistible  desire  to  create  and  to 
fashion.  The  dramatist  compels  the  listener  to 
repeat  his  creations.  The  whole  world  of  charac- 
ters, of  sorrow,  and  of  destiny,  the  hearer  must  make 
alive  in  himself.  While  he  is  receiving  with  a  high 
degree  of  suspense,  he  is  in  most  powerful,  most 
rapid  creative  activity.  An  ardor  and  beatifying 
cheerfulness  like  that  which  the  poet  himself  has 
felt,  fills  the  hearer  who  repeats  the  poet's  efforts ; 
therefore  the  pain  with  the  feeling  of  pleasure ; 
therefore  the  exaltation  which  outlasts  the  con- 


94   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

elusion  of  the  piece.  And  this  stimulation  of  the 
creative  imagination  is,  in  the  new  drama,  pene- 
trated with  still  a  milder  light;  for  closely  connected 
with  it,  is  an  exalting  sense  of  eternal  reason  in  the 
severest  fates  and  sorrows  of  man.  The  spectator 
feels  and  recognizes  that  the  divinity  which  guides 
his  life,  even  where  it  shatters  the  individual  human 
being,  acts  in  a  benevolent  fellowship  with  the 
human  race ;  and  he  feels  himself  creatively  exalted, 
as  united  with  and  in  accord  with  the  great  world- 
guiding  power. 

So  the  aggregate  effect  of  the  drama,  the  tragic, 
is  with  us  related  to  that  of  the  Greek,  but  still  no 
longer  the  same.  The  Greeks  listened  in  the  green 
youth  of  the  human  race,  for  the  tones  of  the  pro- 
scenium, filled  with  the  sacred  ecstacy  of  Dionysus  ; 
the  German  looks  into  the  world  of  illusion,  not  less 
affected,  but  as  a  lord  of  the  earth.  The  human  race 
has  since  then  passed  through  a  long  history ;  we 
have  all  been  educated  through  historical  science. 

But  more  than  the  general  effect  of  the  drama  is 
denoted  by  the  word  tragic.  The  poet  of  the 
present  time,  and  sometimes  also  the  public,  use  the 
word  in  a  narrower  sense.  We  understand  by  it, 
also,  a  peculiar  kind  of  dramatic  effects. 

When  at  a  certain  point  in  the  action,  there 
enters  suddenly,  unexpectedly,  in  contrast  with  what 
has  preceded,  something  sad,  sombre,  frightful,  that 
we  yet  immediately  feel  has  developed  from  the 
original  course  of  events,  and  is  perfectly  intelli- 
gible from  the  presuppositions  of  the  play,  this  new 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  95 

element  is  a  tragic  force  or  motive.  This  tragic  force 
must  possess  the  three  following  qualities:  (i)  it 
must  be  important  and  of  serious  consequence  to  the 
hero;  (2)  it  must  occur  unexpectedly  ;  (3)  it  must, 
to  the  mind  of  the  spectator,  stand  in  a  visible  chain 
of  accessory  representations,  in  rational  connection 
with  the  earlier  parts  of  the  action.  When  the  con- 
spirators have  killed  Caesar  and,  as  they  think,  have 
bound  Antony  to  themselves,  Antony,  by  his  speech 
stirs  up  against  the  murderers  themselves  the  same 
Romans  for  whose  freedom  Brutus  had  committed 
the  murder.  When  Romeo  has  married  Juliet,  he  is 
placed  under  the  necessity  of  killing  her  cousin, 
Tybalt,  in  the  duel,  and  is  banished.  When  Mary 
Stuart  has  approached  Elizabeth  so  near  that  a 
reconciliation  of  the  two  queens  is  possible,  a 
quarrel  flames  up  between  them,  which  becomes 
fatal  to  Mary.  Here  the  speech  of  Antony,  the 
death  of  Tybalt,  the  quarrel  of  the  queens,  are 
tragic  forces ;  their  effect  rests  upon  this,  that  the 
spectator  comprehends  the  ominous  occurrences  as 
surprising,  and  yet  inseparably  connected  with  what 
has  preceded.  The  hearer  keenly  feels  the  speech 
of  Antony  to  be  a  result  of  the  wrong  which  the 
conspirators  have  done  Caesar ;  through  the  relation 
of  Antony  to  Caesar,  and  his  behavior  in  the  pre- 
vious dialogue  scene  with  the  conspirators,  the 
speech  is  conceived  as  the  necessary  consequence  of 
the  sparing  of  Antony,  and  the  senseless  and  over- 
hasty  confidence  which  the  murderers  place  in  him. 
That  Romeo  must  kill  Tybalt,  will  be  immediately 


g6       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

understood  as  an  unavoidable  consequence  of  the 
mortal  family  quarrel  and  the  duel  with  Mercutio ; 
the  quarrel  of  the  two  queens,  the  hearer  at  once 
understands  to  be  the  natural  consequence  of  their 
pride,  hatred,  and  former  jealousy. 

In  the  same  technical  signification,  the  word 
tragic  is  also  sometimes  used  for  events  in  real  life. 
The  fact,  for  example,  that  Luther,  that  mighty 
champion  of  the  freedom  of  conscience,  became  in 
the  last  half  of  his  life  an  intolerant  oppressor  of 
conscience,  contains,  thus  stated,  nothing  tragic. 
Overweening  desire  for  rule  may  have  developed  in 
Luther ;  he  may  have  become  senile.  But  from  the 
moment  when  it  becomes  clear  to  us,  through  a  suc- 
cession of  accessory  ideas,  that  this  same  intolerance 
was  the  necessary  consequence  of  that  very  honest, 
disinterested  struggle  for  truth,  which  accomplished 
the  Reformation ;  that  this  same  pious  fidelity  with 
which  Luther  upheld  his  conception  of  the  Bible 
against  the  Roman  Church,  brought  him  to  defend 
this  conception  against  an  adverse  decision ;  that  he 
would  not  despair  when  in  his  position  outside  of 
the  church,  but  remained  there,  holding  obstinately 
to  the  letter  of  his  writings  ;  from  the  moment, 
also,  when  we  conceive  of  the  inner  connection  of 
his  intolerance  with  all  that  is  good  and  great  in 
his  nature, — this  darkening  of  his  later  life  produces 
the  effect  of  the  tragic.  Just  so  with  Cromwell. 
That  the  Protector  ruled  as  a  tyrant,  produces,  in 
itself,  nothing  tragic.  But  that  he  must  do  it 
against  his  will,  because  the  partisan  relations 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  97 

through  which  he  had  arisen,  and  his  participation 
in  the  execution  of  the  king,  had  stirred  the  hearts 
of  the  conservative  against  him ;  that  the  great 
hero  from  the  pressure  which  his  earlier  life  had 
laid  upon  him,  could  not  wrest  himself  free  from 
his  office, — this  makes  the  shadow  which  fell  upon 
his  life  through  his  unlawful  reign,  tragic  for  us. 
That  Conradin,  child  of  the  Hohenstaufens,  gath- 
ered a  horde,  and  was  slain  in  Italy  by  his  adver- 
sary,— this  is  not  in  itself  dramatic,  and  in  no  sense 
of  the  word  tragic.  A  weak  youth,  with  slender 
support, — it  was  in  order  that  he  should  succumb. 
But  when  it  is  impressed  upon  our  souls,  that  the 
youth  only  followed  the  old  line  of  march  of  his 
ancestors  toward  Italy,  and  that  in  this  line  of 
march,  almost  all  the  great  princes  of  his  house 
had  fallen,  and  that  this  march  of  an  imperial  race 
was  not  accidental,  but  rested  on  ancient,  historical 
union  of  Germany  with  Italy, — then  the  death  of 
Conradin  appears  to  us  specially  tragic,  not  for 
himself,  but  as  the  final  extinction  of  the  greatest 
race  of  rulers  of  that  time. 

With  peculiar  emphasis,  it  must  again  be  asserted 
that  the  tragic  force  must  be  understood  in  its 
rational  causative  connection  with  the  fundamental 
conditions  of  the  action.  For  our  drama,  such 
events  as  enter  without  being  understood,  incidents 
the  relation  of  which  with  the  action  is  mysteriously 
concealed,  influences  the  significance  of  which  rests 
on  superstitious  notions,  motives  which  are  taken 
from  dream-life,  prophesyings,  presentiments,  have 


98   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

merely  a  secondary  importance.  If  a  family  picture 
which  falls  from  its  nail,  shall  portentously  indicate 
death  and  destruction ;  if  a  dagger  which  was  used 
in  a  crime,  appears  burdened  with  a  mysterious, 
evil-bringing  curse,  till  it  brings  death  to  the  mur- 
derer,— these  kinds  of  attempts  which  ground  the 
tragic  effect  upon  an  inner  connection  which  is 
incomprehensible  to  us,  or  appears  unreasonable, 
are  for  the  free  race  of  the  present  day,  either  weak 
or  quite  intolerable.  What  appears  to  us  as  an  acci- 
dent, even  an  overwhelming  one,  is  not  appropriate 
for  great  effects  on  the  stage.  It  is  now  several 
centuries  since  the  adoption  of  such  motives  and 
many  others,  has  been  tried  in  Germany. 

The  Greeks,  it  may  be  remarked  incidentally, 
were  somewhat  less  fastidious  in  the  use  of  these 
irrational  forces  for  tragic  effect.  They  could  be 
contented  if  the  inner  connection  of  a  suddenly 
entering  tragic  force,  with  what  had  preceded,  were 
felt  in  an  ominous  shudder.  When  Aristotle  cites 
as  an  effective  example  in  this  direction,  that  a 
statue  erected  to  a  man,  in  falling  down,  kills  him 
who  was  guilty  of  the  man's  death,  we  should  feel 
in  every-day  life  such  an  accident  is  significant. 
But  in  art,  we  should  not  deem  it  worthy  of  success. 
Sophocles  understands  how,  with  such  forces,  to  make 
conspicuous  a  natural  and  intelligible  connection 
between  cause  and  effect  so  far  as  his  fables  allow 
anything  of  the  sort.  For  example,  the  manner  in 
which  he  explains,  with  realistic  detail,  the  poison- 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  99 

ous  effect  of  the  shirt  of  Nessos,  which  Dcianeira 
sends  to  Hercules,  is  remarkable. 

The  tragic  force,  or  incident,  in  the  drama  is  one 
of  many  effects.  It  may  enter  only  once,  as  usually 
happens ;  it  may  be  used  several  times  in  the  same 
piece.  Romeo  and  Juliet  has  three  such  forces  :  the 
death  of  Tybalt  after  the  marriage  ;  the  betrothal  of 
Juliet  and  Paris  after  the  marriage  night  ;  the  death 
of  Paris  before  the  final  catastrophe.  The  position 
which  this  force  takes  in  the  piece,  is  not  always  the 
same  ;  one  point,  however,  is  specially  adapted  for 
it,  so  that  the  cases  in  which  it  demands  another 
place,  can  be  considered  as  exceptions  ;  and  it  is 
relevant  in  connection  with  the  foregoing  to  speak 
of  this  here,  though  the  parts  of  the  drama  will  be 
discussed  in  the  following  chapter. 

The  point  forward  from  which  the  deed  of  the 
hero  reacts  upon  himself,  is  one  of  the  most  impor- 
tant in  the  play.  This  beginning  of  the  reaction, 
sometimes  united  in  one  scene  with  the  climax,  has 
been  noted  ever  since  there  has  been  a  dramatic  art. 
The  embarrassment  of  the  hero  and  the  momentous 
position  into  which  he  has  placed  himself,  must  be 
impressively  represented  ;  at  the  same  time,  it  is  the 
business  of  this  force  to  produce  new  suspense  for 
the  second  part  of  the  piece,  and  so  much  the  more 
as  the  apparent  success  of  the  hero  has  so  far  been 
more  brilliant,  and  the  more  magnificently  the  scene 
of  the  climax  has  presented  his  success.  Whatever 
enters  into  the  play  now  must  have  all  the  qualities 
which  have  been  previously  explained  —  it  must 


loo      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

present  sharp  contrasts,  it  must  not  be  accidental,  it 
must  be  pregnant  with  consequences.  Therefore  it 
must  have  importance  and  a  certain  magnitude. 
This  scene  of  the  tragic  force  either  immediately 
follows  the  scene  of  the  climax,  like  the  despair  of 
Juliet  after  Romeo's  departure ;  or  is  joined  by  a 
connecting  scene,  like  the  speech  of  Antony  after 
Caesar's  murder ;  or  it  is  coupled  with  the  climax 
scene  into  scenic  unity,  as  in  Mary  Stuart ;  or  it  is 
entirely  separated  from  it  by  the  close  of  an  act,  as 
in  Love  and  Intrigue,  where  Louise's  writing  the 
letter  indicates  the  climax,  and  Ferdinand's  convic- 
tion of  the  infidelity  of  his  beloved  forms  the  tragic 
force.  Such  scenes  almost  always  stand  in  the 
third  act  of  our  plays,  sometimes  less  effective  in 
the  beginning  of  the  fourth.  They  are  not,  of 
course,  absolutely  necessary  to  the  tragedy ;  it  is 
quite  possible  to  bring  along  the  increasing  reaction 
by  several  strokes  in  gradual  reinforcement.  •  This 
will  most  frequently  be  the  case  where  the  catas- 
trophe is  effected  by  the  mental  processes  of  the 
hero,  as  in  Othello. 

It  is  worth  while  for  us  in  modern  times  to  rec- 
ognize how  important  this  entrance  of  the  tragic 
force  into  the  action  appeared  to  the  Greeks.  It 
was  under  another  name  exactly  the  same  effect  ; 
and  it  was  made  still  more  significantly  prominent 
by  the  Attic  critic  than  is  necessary  for  us.  Even 
to  their  tragedies,  this  force  was  not  indispensable, 
but  it  passed  for  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  most 
effective  inventions.  Indeed,  they  classed  this 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  101 

effect  according  to  its  producing  a  turn  in  the  action 
itself  or  in  the  position  of  the  chief  characters  rel- 
ative to  one  another  ;  and  they  had  for  each  of 
these  cases  special  names,  apparently  expressions  of 
the  old  poetic  laboratory,  which  an  accident  has 
preserved  for  us  in  Aristotle's  Poetics.9 

Revolution  (Peripeteia},  is  the  name  given  by 
the  Greeks  to  that  tragic  force  which  by  the  sud- 
den intrusion  of  an  event,  unforeseen  and  over- 
whelming but  already  grounded  in  the  plan  of  the 
action,  impels  the  volition  of  the  hero,  and  with 
it  the  action  itself  in  a  direction  entirely  different 
from  that  of  the  beginning.  Examples  of  such 
revolution  scenes  are  the  change  in  the  prospects  of 
Neoptolemus  in  Philoctetcs,  the  announcement  of  the 
messenger  and  the  shepherd  to  Jocasta  and  the  king 
in  King  CEdipus,  the  account  of  Hyllos  to  Deia- 
neira,  concerning  the  effect  of  the  shirt  of  Nessos, 
in  The  Trachinian  Women.  Through  this  force  spe- 
cially there  was  produced  a  powerful  movement  in 
the  second  part  of  the  play  ;  and  the  Athenians 
distinguished  carefully  between  plays  with  revolu- 
tion and  those  without.  Those  with  revolution  pre- 
vailed in  general,  being  considered  the  better.  This 
force  of  the  ancient  action  is  distinguished  from  the 
corresponding  newer  only  in  this,  that  it  does  not 
necessarily  indicate  a  turning  toward  the  disastrous, 
because  the  tragedy  of  the  ancients  did  not  always 
have  a  sad  ending,  but  sometimes  the  sudden  rever- 
sion to  the  better.  The  scenes  claimed  scarcely 
less  significance,  in  which  the  position  of  the  per- 


102      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

sons  concerned  in  the  action  was  changed  with 
relation  to  each  other,  by  the  unexpected  revival  of 
an  old  and  important  relation  between  them.  These 
scenes  of  the  anagnorisis,  recognition  scenes,  it  was 
especially,  in  which  the  agreeable  relations  of  the 
heroes  became  apparent  in  magnificent  achievement. 
And  since  the  Greek  stage  did  not  know  our  love 
scenes,  they  occupied  a  similar  position,  though 
good-will  did  not  always  appear  in  them,  and  some- 
times even  hatred  flamed  up.  The  subjects  of  the 
Greeks  offered  ample  opportunity  for  such  scenes. 
The  heroes  of  Greek  story  are,  almost  without 
exception,  a  wandering  race.  Expedition  and  return, 
the  finding  of  friends  and  enemies  unexpectedly, 
are  among  the  most  common  features  of  these  leg- 
ends. Almost  every  collection  of  stories  contains 
children  who  did  not  know  their  parents,  husbands 
and  wives,  who  after  long  separation  came  together 
again  under  peculiar  circumstances,  host  and -guest, 
who  prudently  sought  to  conceal  their  names  and 
purposes.  There  was,  therefore,  in  much  of  their 
material,  scenes  of  meetings,  finding  the  lost,  remi- 
niscences of  significant  past  events,  some  of  decisive 
importance.  Not  only  the  recognizing  of  former 
acquaintances  but  the  recognition  of  a  region,  of  an 
affair  having  many  relations,  could  become  a  motive 
for  a  strong  movement.  Such  scenes  afforded  the 
old-time  poet  welcome  opportunity  for  the  repre- 
sentation of  contrasts  in  perception  and  for  favorite 
pathetic  performances  in  which  the  excited  feeling 
flowed  forth  in  great  waves.  The  woman  who  will 


THE   DRAMATIC  ACTION.  103 

kill  an  enemy,  and  just  before  or  just  after  the  deed 
recognizes  him  as  her  own  son  ;  the  son  who  in  his 
mortal  enemy  finds  again  his  own  mother,  like  Ion  ; 
the  priestess  who  is  about  to  offer  up  a  stranger, 
and  in  him  recognizes  her  brother,  like  Iphigenia  ; 
the  sister  who  mourns  her  dead  brother,  and  in  the 
bringer  of  the  burial  urn  receives  back  again  the 
living ;  and  Odysseus's  nurse  who,  in  a  beggar, 
finds  out  the  home-returning  master  by  a  scar  on 
his  foot, — these  are  some  of  the  numerous  exam- 
ples. Frequently  such  recognition  scenes  became 
motives  for  a  revolution,  as  in  the  case  already  men- 
tioned of  the  account  of  the  messenger  and  the 
shepherd  to  the  royal  pair  of  Thebes.  One  may 
read  in  Aristotle  how  important  the  circumstances 
were  to  the  Greeks  through  which  the  recognition 
was  brought  about ;  by  the  great  philosopher,  they 
were  carefully  considered  and  prized  according  to 
their  intrinsic  worth.  And  it  is  a  source  of  satisfac- 
tion to  observe  that  even  to  the  Greek,  no  acci- 
dental external  characteristic  passed  for  a  motive 
suitable  to  art,  but  only  the  internal  relations  of 
those  recognizing  each  other,  which  voluntarily  and 
characteristically  for  both,  manifested  themselves  in 
the  dialogue.  Just  a  glimpse  assures  us  how  refined 
and  fully  developed  the  dramatic  criticism  of  the 
Greeks  was,  and  how  painfully  conscientious  they 
were  to  regard  in  a  new  drama  what  passed  for  a 
beautiful  effect  according  to  their  theory  of  art. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

I. 
PLAY  AND  COUNTERPLAY. 

In  an  action,  through  characters,  by  means  of 
words,  tones,  gestures,  the  drama  presents  those 
soul-processes  which  man  experiences,  from  the 
flashing  up  of  an  idea,  to  passionate  desire  and  to  a 
deed,  as  well  as  those  inward  emotions  which  are 
excited  by  his  own  deeds  and  those  of  others. 

The  structure  of  the  drama  must  show  these  two 
contrasted  elements  of  the  dramatic  joined  in  a 
unity,  efflux  and  influx  of  will-power,  the  accom- 
plishment of  a  deed  and  its  reaction  on  the 
soul,  movement  and  counter-movement,  strife  and 
counter-strife,  rising  and  sinking,  binding  and 
loosing. 

In  every  part  of  the  drama,  both  tendencies  of 
dramatic  life  appear,  each  incessantly  challenging 
the  other  to  its  best  in  play  and  counter-play ;  but 
in  general,  also,  the  action  of  the  drama  and  the 
grouping  of  characters  is,  through  these  tendencies, 
in  two  parts.  What  the  drama  presents  is  always  a 
struggle,  which,  with  strong  perturbations  of  soul, 
the  hero  wages  against  opposing  forces.  And  as 

104 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.       105 

the  hero  must  be  endowed  with  a  strong  life,  with  a 
certain  one-sidedness,  and  be  in  embarrassment,  the 
opposing  power  must  be  made  visible  in  a  human 
representative. 

It  is  quite  indifferent  in  favor  of  which  of  the 
contending  parties  the  greater  degree  of  justice  lies, 
whether  a  character  or  his  adversary  is  better- 
mannered,  more  favored  by  law,  embodies  more  of 
the  traditions  of  the  time,  possesses  more  of  the 
ethical  spirit  of  the  poet ;  in  both  groups,  good  and 
evil,  power  and  weakness,  are  variously  mingled. 
But  both  must  be  endowed  with  what  is  universally, 
intelligibly  human.  The  chief  hero  must  always 
stand  in  strong  contrast  with  his  opponents ;  the 
advantage  which  he  wins  for  himself,  must  be  the 
greater,  so  much  the  greater  the  more  perfectly  the 
final  outcome  of  the  struggle  shows  him  to  be  van- 
quished. 

These  two  chief  parts  of  the  drama  are  firmly 
united  by  a  point  of  the  action  which  lies  directly  in 
the  middle.  This  middle,  the  climax  of  the  play,  js 
thejnost  important  place  of  the  structure  ;  the  action 
rjsesjto  this  ^JLhe-actioa  ialls-Away  from  this.  It  is 
now  decisive  for  the  character  of  the  drama  which 
of  the  two  refractions  of  the  dramatic  light  shall 
have  a  place  in  the  first  part  of  the  play,  which  shall 
fall  in  the  second  part  as  the  dominating  influence ; 
whether  the  efflux  or  influx,  the  play  or  the  counter- 
play,  maintains  the  first  part.  Either  is  allowed ; 
either  arrangement  of  the  structure  can  cite  plays  of 
the  highest  merit  in  justification  of  itself.  And 


io6      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

these  two  ways  of  constructing  a  drama  have  become 
characteristic  of  individual  poets  and  of  the  time  in 
which  they  lived. 

By  one  dramatic  arrangement,  the  chief  person, 
the  hero,  is  so  introduced  that  his  nature  and  his 
characteristics  speak  out  unembarrassed,  even  to  the 
moments  when,  as  a  consequence  of  external 
impulse  or  internal  association  of  ideas,  in  him  the 
beginning  of  a  powerful  feeling  or  volition  becomes 
perceptible.  The  inner  commotion,  the  passionate 
eagerness,  the  desire  of  the  hero,  increase;  new  cir- 
cumstances, stimulating  or  restraining,  intensify  his 
embarrassment  and  his  struggle  ;  the  chief  character 
strides  victoriously  forward  to  an  unrestrained  exhi- 
bition of  his  life,  in  which  the  full  force  of  his  feel- 
ing and  his  will  are  concentrated  in  a  deed  by  which 
the  spiritual  tension  is  relaxed.  From  this  point 
there  is  a  turn  in  the  action ;  the  hero  appeared  up 
to  this  point  in  a  desire,  one-sided  or  full  of  conse- 
quence, working  from  within  outward,  changing  by 
its  own  force  the  life  relations  in  which  he  came 
upon  the  stage.  From  the  climax  on,  what  he  has 
done  reacts  upon  himself  and  gains  power  over  him  ; 
the  external  world,  which  he  conquered  in  the  rise 
of  passionate  conflict,  now  stands  in  the  strife  above 
him.  This  adverse  influence  becomes  continually 
more  powerful  and  victorious,  until  at  last  in  the 
final  catastrophe,  it  compels  the  hero  to  succumb  to 
its  irresistible  force.  The  end  of  the  piece  follows 
this  catastrophe  immediately,  the  situation  where  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        107 

restoration  of  peace  and  quiet  after  strife  becomes 
apparent. 

With  this  arrangement,  first  the  inception  and 
progress  of  the  action  are  seen,  then  the  effects  of 
the  reaction ;  the  character  of  the  first  part  is  deter- 
mined by  the  depth  of  the  hero's  exacting  claims  ; 
the  second  by  the  counter-claims  which  the  violently 
disturbed  surroundings  put  forward.  This  is  the 
construction  of  Antigone,  of  Ajaxt  of  all  of  Shake- 
speare's great  tragedies  except  Othello  and  King 
Lear,  of  The  Maid  of  Orleans,  less  surely  of  the 
double  tragedy,  Wallcnstcin. 

The  other  dramatic  arrangement,  on  the  con- 
trary, represents  the  hero  at  the  beginning,  in 
comparative  quiet,  among  conditions  of  life  which 
suggest  the  influence  of  some  external  forces  upon 
his  mind.  These  forces,  adverse  influences,  work 
with  increased  activity  so  long  in  the  hero's  soul, 
that  at  the  climax,  they  have  brought  him  into 
ominous  embarrassment,  from  which,  under  a  stress 
of  passion,  desire,  activity,  he  plunges  downward  to 
the  catastrophe. 

This  construction  makes  use  of  opposing  charac- 
ters, in  order  to  give  motive  to  the  strong  excrte- 
ment  of  the  chief  character;  the  relation  of  the 
chief  figures  to  the  idea  of  the  drama  is  an  entirely 
different  one;  they  do  not  give  direction  in  the 
ascending  action,  but  are  themselves  directed. 
Examples  of  this  construction  are  King  CEdipus, 
Othello,  Lear,  Emilia  Galotti,  Clavigo,  Love  and 
Intrigue. 


io8      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

It  might  appear  that  this  second  method  of 
dramatic  construction  must  be  the  more  effective. 
Gradually,  in  a  specially  careful  performance,  one 
sees  the  conflicts  through  which  the  life  of  the  hero 
is  disturbed,  give  direction  to  his  inward  being. 
Just  there,  where  the  hearer  demands  a  powerful 
intensifying  of  effects,  the  previously  prepared 
domination  of  the  chief  characters  enters  ;  suspense 
and  sympathy,  which  are  more  difficult  to  sustain  in 
the  last  half  of  the  play,  are  firmly  fixed  upon  the 
chief  characters ;  the  stormy  and  irresistible  pro- 
gress downward  is  particularly  favorable  to  powerful 
and  thrilling  effects.  And,  indeed,  subjects  which 
contain  the  gradual  rise  and  growth  of  a  portentous 
passion  which  in  the  end  leads  the  hero  to  his  de- 
struction, are  exceedingly  favorable  for  such  an 
action. 

But  this  method  of  constructing  a  play  is  not 
the  most  correct,  dramatically ;  and  it  is  no  acci- 
dent, that  the  greatest  dramas  of  such  a  character,  at 
the  tragic  close,  intermingle  with  the  emotions  and 
perturbations  of  the  hearer,  an  irritating  feeling 
which  lessens  the  joy  and  recreation.  For  they  do 
not  specially  show  the  hero  as  an  active,  aggressive 
nature,  but  as  a  receptive,  suffering  person,  who  is 
too  much  compelled  by  the  counter-play,  which 
strikes  him  from  without.  The  greatest  exercise  of 
human  power,  that  which  carries  with  it  the  heart  of 
the  spectator  most  irresistibly,  is,  in  all  times,  the 
bold  individuality  which  sets  its  own  inner  self, 
without  regard  to  consequences,  over  against  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.       109 

forces  which  surround  it.  The  essential  nature  of 
the  drama  is  conflict  and  suspense  ;  the  sooner  these 
are  evoked  by  means  of  the  chief  heroes  themselves 
and  given  direction,  the  better. 

It  is  true,  the  first  kind  of  dramatic  structure 
conceals  a  danger,  which  even  by  genius,  is  not 
always  successfully  avoided.  In  this,  as  a  rule,  the 
first  part  of  the  play,  which  raises  the  hero  through 
regular  degrees  of  commotion  to  the  climax,  is 
assured  its  success.  But  the  second  half,  in  which 
greater  effects  are  demanded,  depends  mostly 
on  the  counter-play ;  and  this  counter-play  must 
here  be  grounded  in  more  violent  movement  and 
have  comparatively  greater  authorization.  This 
may  distract  attention  rather  than  attract  it  more 
forcibly.  It  must  be  added,  that  after  the  climax  of 
the  action,  the  hero  must  seem  weaker  than  the 
counteracting  figures.  Moreover,  on  this  account, 
the  interest  in  him  may  be  lessened.  Yet  in  spite 
of  this  difficulty,  the  poet  need  be  in  no  doubt  to 
which  kind  of  arrangement  to  give  the  preference. 
His  task  will  be  greater  in  this  arrangement;  great 
art  is  required  to  make  the  last  act  strong.  But 
talent  and  good  fortune  must  overcome  the  diffi- 
culties. And  the  most  beautiful  garlands  which 
dramatic  art  has  to  confer,  fall  upon  the  successful 
work.  Of  course  the  poet  is  dependent  on  his  sub- 
ject and  material,  which  sometimes  leaves  no  choice. 
Therefore,  one  of  the  first  questions  a  poet  must 
ask,  when  contemplating  attractive  material,  is  "does 
it  come  forward  in  the  play  or  in  the  counterplay  ?" 


no   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

It  is  instructive  in  connection  with  this  topic, 
to  compare  the  great  poets.  From  the  few  plays  of 
Sophocles  which  we  have  preserved,  the  majority 
belong  to  those  in  which  the  chief  actor  has  the 
direction,  however  unfavorable  the  sphere  of  epic 
material  was  for  the  unrestrained  self-direction  of 
the  heroes.  Shakespeare,  however,  evinces  here 
the  highest  power  and  art.  He  is  the  poet  of  char- 
acters which  reach  conclusions  quickly.  Vital 
force  and  marrow,  compressed  energy  and  the 
intense  virility  of  his  heroes,  impel  the  piece  in 
rapid  movement  upward,  from  the  very  opening 
scene. 

In  sharp  contrast  with  him,  stands  the  tendency 
of  the  great  German  poets  of  the  last  century. 
They  love  a  broad  motiving,  a  careful  grounding  of 
the  unusual.  In  many  of  their  dramas,  it  looks  as 
if  their  heroes  would  wait  quietly  in  a  self-controlled 
mood,  in  uncertain  circumstances,  if  they  were  only 
let  alone  ;  and  since,  to  most  of  the  heroic  charac- 
ters of  the  Germans,  conscious  power,  firm  self-con- 
fidence and  quick  decision  are  wanting,  so  they 
stand  in  the  action,  uncertain,  meditating,  doubting, 
moved  rather  by  external  relations  than  by  claims 
that  have  no  regard  to  consequences.  It  is  signifi- 
cant of  the  refinement  of  the  last  century,  of  the 
culture  and  spiritual  life  of  a  people  to  whom  a  joy- 
ful prosperity,  a  public  life,  and  a  self-government, 
were  so  greatly  lacking.  Even  Schiller,  who  under- 
stood so  well  how  to  excite  intense  passion,  was 
fond  of  giving  the  power  of  direction  to  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       in 

counter-players  in  the  first  half,  and  to  the  chief 
actors  only  in  the  second  half,  from  the  climax 
downward.  In  Love  and  Intrigue,  therefore,  Ferdi- 
nand and  Louise  are  pushed  forward  by  the 
intriguers ;  and  only  from  the  scene  between  Ferdi- 
nand and  the  president,  after  the  tragic  force 
enters,  Ferdinand  assumes  the  direction  till  the  end. 
Still  worse  is  the  relation  of  the  hero,  Don  Carlos, 
to  the  action ;  he  is  kept  in  leading  strings,  not  only 
through  the  ascending  half,  but  as  well  through  the 
descending  half.  In  Mary  Stuart,  the  heroine  has 
the  controlling  influence  over  her  portentous  fate, 
up  to  the  climax,  the  garden  scene ;  so  far  she  con- 
trols the  mental  attitudes  of  her  counter-players ; 
the  propelling  forces  are,  however,  as  the  subject 
demanded,  the  intriguers  and  Elizabeth. 

Much  better  known,  yet  of  less  importance  for 
the  construction  of  the  drama,  is  the  distinction  of 
plays,  which  originates  in  the  last  turn  in  the  fate  of 
the  hero,  and  in  the  meaning  of  the  catastrophe. 
The  new  German  stage  distinguishes  two  kinds  of 
serious  plays,  tragedy  and  spectacle  play  {traucr- 
spiel  and  schauspiet).  The  rigid  distinction  in  this 
sense  is  not  old  even  with  us ;  it  has  been  current  in 
repertoires  only  since  Iffland's  time.  And,  if  now, 
occasionally,  on  the  stage,  comedy,  tragedy,  and 
spectacle  play  are  put  in  opposition  as  three  differ- 
ent kinds  of  recitative  representation,  the  spectacle 
play  is  no  third,  co-ordinate  kind  of  dramatic  crea- 
tion, according  to  its  character,  but  a  subordinate 
kind  of  serious  drama.  The  Attic  stage  did  not  have 


H2      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  name,  but  it  had  the  thing.  Even  in  the  time  of 
jCschylus  and  Sophocles,  a  gloomy  termination  was 
by  no  means  indispensable  to  the  tragedy.  Of 
seven  of  the  extant  tragedies  of  Sophocles,  two, 
Ajax  and  Philoctetcs,  indeed  also,  in  the  eyes  of  the 
Athenians,  (Ediptis  at  Colonos  had  a  mild  close, 
which  turns  the  fate  of  the  hero  toward  the  better. 
Even  in  Euripides,  to  whom  the  critics  attribute 
a  love  of  the  sad  endings,  there  are,  out  of  seventeen 
extant  plays,  four,  besides  Alcestis,  Helena,  Iphigenia 
in  Tauris,  Andromache,  and  Ion,  the  endings  of  which 
correspond  to  our  spectacle  play ;  in  several  others, 
the  tragic  ending  is  accidental  and  without  motive. 
And  it  seems,  the  Athenians  already  had  the  same 
taste  which  we  recognize  in  our  spectators ;  they 
saw  most  gladly  such  tragedies  as  in  our  sense  of 
the  word  were  spectacle  plays,  in  which  the  hero 
was  severely  worried  by  fate,  but  rescued  at  length, 
safely  bore  off  his  hide  and  hair. 

On  the  modern  stage,  it  cannot  be  denied,  the 
justification  of  the  spectacle  play  has  become  more 
pronounced.  We  have  a  nobler  and  more  liberal 
comprehension  of  human  nature.  We  are  able  to 
delineate  more  charmingly,  more  effectively,  and 
more  accurately  inner  conflicts  of  conscience,  oppos- 
ing convictions.  In  a  time  in  which  men  have 
debated  the  abolition  of  capital  punishment,  the  dead 
at  the  end  of  a  play  may  be  more  easily  dispensed 
with.  In  real  life,  we  trust  to  a  strong  human  power 
that  it  will  hold  the  duty  of  living  very  high,  and 
expiate  even  serious  crimes,  not  with  death  but  by  a 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.        113 

purer  life.  But  this  changed  conception  of  earthly 
existence  does  not  bring  an  advantage  to  the  drama 
in  every  respect.  It  is  true  the  fatal  ending  is,  in 
the  case  of  modern  subjects,  less  a  necessity  than  in 
the  dramatic  treatment  of  epic  legends,  or  older 
historical  events ;  but  not  that  the  hero's  at  last 
remaining  alive  makes  a  piece  a  spectacle  play,  but 
that  he  proceeds  from  the  strife  as  conqueror,  or  by 
an  adjustment  with  his  opponent,  goes  away  recon- 
ciled. If  he  must  be  the  victim  at  last,  if  he  must 
be  crushed,  then  the  piece  retains  not  only  the 
character  but  the  name  of  tragedy.  The  Prince  of 
Hamburg  is  a  spectacle  play,  Tasso  is  a  tragedy. 

The  drama  of  modern  times  has  embraced  in  the 
circle  of  its  subjects,  a  broad  field  which  was 
unknown  to  the  tragedy  of  the  ancient  Greeks, 
indeed,  in  the  main,  to  Shakespeare's  art  :  the  mid- 
dle-class life  of  the  present  time,  the  conflicts  of 
our  society.  No  doubt,  the  strifes  and  sufferings  of 
modern  life  make  a  tragic  treatment  possible  ;  and 
this  has  fallen  too  little  to  their  lot ;  but  what  is 
full  of  incident,  what  is  quiet,  what  is  full  of  scruple, 
connected  as  a  rule  with  this  species  of  material, 
affords  artistic  conception  full  justification  ;  and  just 
here  it  brings  forward  such  strifes  as  in  real  life  we 
trust  to  have  and  want  to  have  adjusted  peaceably. 
With  the  broad  and  popular  expansion  which  this 
treatment  has  won,  it  is  proper  to  propose  two  things  : 
first,  that  the  laws  for  the  construction  of  the  spec- 
tacle play  and  the  life  of  the  characters  are,  in  the 
main,  the  same  as  for  the  tragedy,  and  that  it  is 


H4   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

useful  for  the  playwright  to  recognize  these  laws  as 
found  in  the  drama  of  elevated  character,  where 
every  violence  done  them  may  be  dangerous  to  the 
success  of  the  piece  ;  and  second,  that  the  spectacle 
play  in  which  a  milder  adjustment  of  conflicts  is 
necessary  in  the  second  part,  has  a  double  reason 
for  laying  motives  in  the  first  half  by  means  of  fine 
characterization,  for  the  hero's  stout-hearted  and 
vigorous  desire  in  the  second  half  of  the  play. 
Otherwise,  it  is  exposed  to  the  danger  of  becoming 
a  mere  situation-piece,  or  intrigue-play  ;  in  the  first 
case,  by  sacrificing  the  strong  movement  of  a  uni- 
fied action  to  the  more  easy  depiction  of  circum- 
stances and  characteristic  peculiarities  ;  in  the  sec- 
ond case,  by  neglecting  to  develop  the  characters, 
on  account  of  the  rapid  chess-board  performance  of 
a  restless  action.  The  first  is  the  tendency  of  the 
Germans  ;  the  second  of  the  Latins  ;  both  kinds  of 
preparation  of  a  subject  are  unfavorable  to  a  digni- 
fied treatment  of  serious  conflicts  ;  they  belong, 
according  to  their  nature,  to  comedy,  not  to  serious 
drama. 

II. 
FIVE   PARTS  AND  THREE  CRISES  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Through  the  two  halves  of  the  action  which 
come  closely  together  at  one  point,  the  drama  pos- 
sesses —  if  one  may  symbolize  its  arrangement  by 
lines  —  a  pyramidal  structure.  It  rises  from  the 
introduction  with  the  entrance  of  the  exciting  forces 
to  the  climax,  and  falls  from  here  to  the  catastro- 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       115 

phe.  Between  these  three  parts  lie  (the  parts  of) 
the  rise  and  the  fall.  Each  of  these  five  parts  may 
consist  of  a  single  scene,  or  a  succession  of  con- 
nected scenes,  but  the  climax  is  usually  composed 
of  one  chief  scene. 

These  parts  of  the  drama,  (a) 
introduction,  (£)  rise,  (<•)  cli- 
max, (d]  return  or  fall,  (e) 
catastrophe,  have  each  what  is 
peculiar  in  purpose  and  in  con- 
struction. Between  them  stand 
three  important  scenic  effects, 
through  which  the  parts  are  separated  as  well  as 
bound  together.  Of  these  three  dramatic  moments, 
or  crises,  one,  which  indicates  the  beginning  of  the 
stirring  action,  stands  between  the  introduction  and 
the  rise  ;  the  second,  the  beginning  of  the  counter- 
action, between  the  climax  and  the  return  ;  the 
third,  which  must  rise  once  more  before  the  catas- 
trophe, between  the  return  and  the  catastrophe. 
They  are  called  here  the  exciting  moment  or  force, 
the  tragic  moment  or  force,  and  the  moment  or 
force  of  the  last  suspense.  The  operation  of  the 
first  is  necessary  to  every  play  ;  the  second  and 
third  are  good  but  not  indispensable  accessories. 
In  the  following  sections,  therefore,  the  eight  com- 
ponent parts  of  the  drama  will  be  discussed  in  their 
natural  order. 

The  Introduction. —  It  was  the  custom  of  the 
ancients  to  communicate  in  a  prologue,  what  was  pre- 
supposed for  the  action.  The  prologue  of  Sophocles 


n6      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

and  also  of  /Eschylus  is  a  thoroughly  necessary  and 
essential  part  of  the  action,  having  dramatic  life  and 
connection,  and  corresponding  exactly  to  our  open- 
ing scene  ;  and  in  the  old  stage-management  signifi- 
cation of  the  word,  it  comprised  that  part  of  the 
action  which  lay  before  the  entrance  song  of  the 
chorus.  In  Euripides,  it  is,  by  a  careless  return  to 
the  older  custom,  an  epic  messenger  announce- 
ment, which  a  masked  figure  delivers  to  the  audi- 
ence, a  figure  who  never  once  appears  in  the  play, 
—  like  Aphrodite  in  Hyppolitus  and  the  ghost  of  the 
slain  Polydorus  in  Hecuba.  In  Shakespeare,  the 
prologue  is  entirely  severed  from  the  action  ;  it  is 
only  an  address  of  the  poet ;  it  contains  civility, 
apology,  and  the  plea  for  attention.  Since  it  is  no 
longer  necessary  to  plead  for  quiet  and  attention,  the 
German  stage  has  purposely  given  up  the  prologue, 
but  allows  it  as  a  festive  greeting  which  distin- 
guishes a  single  representation,  or  as  the  chance 
caprice  of  a  poet.  In  Shakespeare,  as  with  us,  the 
introduction  has  come  back  again  into  the  right 
place ;  it  is  filled  with  dramatic  movement,  and  has 
become  an  organic  part  of  the  dramatic  structure. 
Yet,  in  individual  cases,  the  newer  stage  has  not 
been  able  to  resist  another  temptation,  to  expand 
the  introduction  to  a  situation  scene,  and  set  it  in 
advance  as  a  special  prelude  to  the  drama.  Well- 
known  examples  are  The  Maid  of  Orleans  and  Kdtchen 
of  Heilbronn,  Wallensteiris  Camp,  and  the  most  beauti- 
ful of  all  prologues,  that  to  Fanst. 

That  such  a  severing  of  the  opening  scene  is 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        117 

hazardous,  will  be  readily  granted.  The  poet  who 
treats  it  as  a  separate  piece,  is  compelled  to  give  it 
an  expansion,  and  divide  it  into  members  which  do 
not  correspond  to  their  inner  significance.  What- 
ever seems  separated  by  a  strong  incision,  becomes 
subject  to  the  laws  of  each  great  dramatic  unit ;  it 
must  again  have  an  introduction,  a  rise,  a  propor- 
tionate climax,  and  a  conclusion.  But  such  presup- 
positions of  a  drama,  the  circumstances  previous  to 
the  entrance  of  the  moving  force,  are  not  favorable 
to  a  strongly  membered  movement ;  and  the  poet 
will,  therefore,  have  to  bring  forward  his  persons  in 
embellished  and  proportionately  broad,  elaborated 
situations.  He  will  be  obliged  to  give  these  situa- 
tions in  some  fulness  and  abundance,  because  every 
separate  structure  must  awaken  and  satisfy  an  inde- 
pendent interest ;  and  this  is  possible  only  by  using 
sufficient  time.  But  two  difficulties  arise  in  this : 
first,  that  the  time  of  the  chief  action,  not  too  amply 
allotted  on  our  stage  without  this,  will  be  shortened ; 
and  second,  that  the  prelude,  through  its  broad 
treatment  and  quiet  subject  matter,  will  probably 
contain  a  color  which  is  so  different  from  that  of  the 
drama,  that  it  distracts  and  satisfies,  instead  of  pre- 
paring the  spectator  for  the  chief  part.  It  is  nearly 
always  the  convenience  of  the  poet  and  the  defec- 
tive arrangement  of  the  material,  which  occasion  the 
construction  of  a  prelude  to  an  acting  play.  No 
material  should  keep  further  presuppositions  than 
such  as  allow  of  reproduction  in  a  few  short  touches. 
Since  it  is  the  business  of  the  introduction  of  the 


n8   FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

drama  to  explain  the  place  and  time  of  the  action, 
the  nationality  and  life  relations  of  the  hero,  it  must 
at  once  briefly  characterize  the  environment.  Besides, 
the  poet  will  have  opportunity  here,  as  in  a  short 
overture,  to  indicate  the  peculiar  mood  of  the  piece, 
as  well  as  the  time,  the  greater  vehemence  or  quiet 
with  which  the  action  moves  forward.  The  mod- 
erate movement,  the  mild  light  in  Tasso,  is  intro- 
duced by  the  brilliant  splendor  of  the  princely 
garden,  the  quiet  conversation  of  the  richly  attired 
ladies,  the  garlands,  the  adornment  of  the  poet 
painter.  In  Mary  Stuart,  there  is  the  breaking  open 
of  closets,  the  quarrel  between  Paulet  and  Kennedy 
—  a  good  picture  of  the  situation.  In  Nathan  the 
Wise,  the  excited  conversation  of  the  returning 
Nathan  with  Daja  is  an  excellent  introduction 
to  the  dignified  course  of  the  action  and  to  the 
contrasts  in  the  inwardly  disturbed  characters. 
In  Piccolomini,  there  are  the  greetings  of  the 
generals  and  Questenberg,  an  especially  beautiful 
introduction  to  the  gradually  rising  movement. 
But  the  greatest  master  of  fine  beginnings  is 
Shakespeare.  In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  day,  an  open 
street,  brawls  and  the  clatter  of  the  swords  of 
the  hostile  parties ;  in  Hamlet,  night,  the  startling 
call  of  the  watch,  the  mounting  of  the  guard,  the 
appearance  of  the  ghost,  restless,  gloomy,  desperate 
excitement ;  in  Macbeth,  storm,  thunder,  the  unearthly 
witches  and  dreary  heath  ;  and  again  in  Richard  III., 
no  striking  surroundings,  a  single  man  upon  the 
stage,  the  old  despotic  evil  genius,  who  controls  the 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        119 

entire  dramatic  life  of  the  piece,  himself  speaking 
the  prologue.  So  in  each  of  his  artistic  dramas. 

It  may  be  asserted  that,  as  a  rule,  it  is  expedient 
soon  after  the  opening  scene,  to  strike  the  first 
chords  firmly  and  with  as  much  emphasis  as  the  char- 
acter of  the  piece  will  allow.  Of  course,  Clavigo  is 
not  opened  with  the  rattle  of  the  drum,  nor  William 
Tell  with  the  quarrelling  of  children  in  the  quiet 
life  of  the  household ;  a  brief  excited  movement, 
adapted  to  the  piece,  conducts  without  violence  to 
the  more  quiet  exposition.  Occasionally  this  first 
exciting  strain  in  Shakespeare,  to  whom  his  stage 
allowed  greater  liberty,  is  separated  from  the  suc- 
ceeding exposition  by  a  scenic  passage.  Thus  in 
Hamlet,  a  court  scene  follows  it;  in  Macbeth,  the 
entrance  of  Duncan  and  the  news  of  the  battle.  So 
in  Julius  Casar,  where  the  conference  and  strife 
between  the  tribunes  and  the  plebeians  form  the 
first  strong  stroke,  to  which  the  exposition,  the  con- 
versation of  Cassius  and  Brutus,  and  the  holiday 
procession  of  Caesar,  is  closely  joined.  Also  in 
Mary  Stuart,  after  the  quarrel  with  Paulet,  comes 
the  exposition,  the  scene  between  Mary  and  Ken- 
nedy. So  in  William  Tell,  after  the  charming,  only 
too  melodramatic  opening  situation,  comes  the  con- 
versation of  the  country  people. 

Now  certainly  this  note,  sounded  at  the  begin- 
ning, is  not  necessarily  a  loud  unison  of  the  voices 
of  different  persons ;  brief  but  deep  emotions  in  the 
chief  characters  may  very  well  indicate  the  first  rip- 
ple of  the  short  waves  which  has  to  precede  the 


120      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

storms  of  the  drama.  So  in  Emilia  Galotti,  the 
exposition  of  the  restless  agitation  of  the  prince  at 
the  work-table  goes  through  the  greater  beating  of 
waves  in  the  conversation  with  Conti  even  into  the 
scene  with  Marinelli,  which  contains  the  exciting 
force,  the  news  of  the  impending  marriage  of 
Emilia.  Similarly  but  less  conveniently  in  Clavigo, 
it  goes  from  the  conversation  at  Clavigo's  desk, 
through  Mary's  dwelling,  to  the  beginning  of  the 
action  itself, —  the  visit  of  Beaumarchais  to  Clavigo. 
Indeed,  the  action  may  arise  so  gradually  that  the 
quiet  preserved  from  the  beginning  forms  an  effect- 
ive background,  as  in  Goethe's  Iphigenia. 

If  Shakespeare  and  the  Germans  of  the  earlier 
times, —  Sara  Sampson,  Clavigo — have  not  avoided 
the  changing  of  scenes  in  the  introduction,  their 
example  is  not  to  be  imitated  on  our  stage.  The 
exposition  should  be  kept  free  from  anything 
distracting;  its  task,  to  prepare  for  the  action,  it 
best  accomplishes  if  it  so  proceeds  that  the  first 
short  introductory  chord  is  followed  by  a  well- 
executed  scene  which  by  a  quick  transition  is  con- 
nected with  the  following  scene  containing  the 
exciting  force.  Julius  C<zsar,  Mary  Stuart,  Wallen- 
stein,  are  excellent  examples  in  this  direction. 

The  difficulty  of  giving  also  to  the  representa- 
tive of  the  counter-play  a  place  in  the  introduction, 
is  not  insurmountable.  In  the  arrangement  of 
scenes,  at  least,  the  poet  must  feel  the  full  mastery 
of  his  material ;  and  it  is  generally  an  embarrass- 
ment of  his  power  of  imagination  when  this  seems 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF   THE   DRAMA.        121 

impossible  to  him.  However,  should  the  fitting  of 
the  counter-party  into  the  exposition  be  impracti- 
cable, there  is  always  still  time  enough  to  bring 
them  forward  in  the  first  scenes  of  the  involution. 

Without  forcing  all  possible  cases  into  the  same 
uniform  mould,  therefore,  the  poet  may  hold  firmly 
to  this:  the  construction  of  a  regular  introduction 
is  as  follows:  a  clearly  defining  keynote,  a  finished 
scene,  a  short  transition  into  the  first  moment  of  the 
excited  action. 

The  Exciting  Force. — The  beginning  of  the  excited 
action  (complication)  occurs  at  a  point  where,  in  the 
soul  of  the  hero,  there  arises  a  feeling  or  volition 
which  becomes  the  occasion  of  what  follows ;  or 
where  the  counter-play  resolves  to  use  its  lever  to  set 
the  hero  in  motion.  Manifestly,  this  impelling  force 
will  come  forward  more  significantly  in  those  plays  in 
which  the  chief  actor  governs  the  first  half  by  his 
force  of  will ;  but  in  any  arrangement,  it  remains  an 
important  motive  force  for  the  action.  In  Julius 
Casar,  this  impelling  force  is  the  thought  of  killing 
Caesar,  which,  by  the  conversation  with  Cassius, 
gradually  becomes  fixed  in  the  soul  of  Brutus.  In 
Othello,  it  comes  into  play  after  the  stormy  night- 
scene  of  the  exposition,  by  means  of  the  second 
conference  between  lago  and  Roderigo,  with  the 
agreement  to  separate  the  Moor  and  Desdemona. 
In  Richard  III.,  on  the  contrary,  it  rises  in  the  very 
beginning  of  the  piece  along  with  the  exposition, 
and  as  a  matured  plan  in  the  soul  of  the  hero.  In 
both  cases,  its  position  helps  to  fix  the  character  of 


122      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  piece  ;  in  Othello,  where  the  counter-play  leads  at 
the  conclusion  of  a  long  introduction ;  in  Richard 
III.,  where  the  villain  alone  rules  in  the  first  scene. 
In  Romeo  and  Juliet,  this  occasioning  motive  comes 
to  the  soul  of  the  hero  in  the  interview  with  Benvo- 
lio,  as  the  determination  to  be  present  at  the  masked 
ball ;  and  immediately  before  this  scene,  there  runs 
as  parallel  scene,  the  conversation  between  Paris 
and  Capulet,  which  determines  the  fate  of  Juliet ; 
both  scenic  moments,  in  such  significant  juxtaposi- 
tion, form  together  the  impelling  force  of  this 
drama,  which  has  two  heroes,  the  two  lovers.  In 
Emilia  Galotti,  it  sinks  into  the  soul  of  the  prince, 
as  he  receives  the  announcement  of  the  impending 
marriage  of  the  heroine ;  in  Clavigo,  it  is  the  arrival 
of  Beaumarchais  at  his  sister's  ;  in  Mary  Stuart,  it  is 
the  confession  which  Mortimer  makes  to  the  queen. 
Scarcely  will  any  one  cherish  the  opinion  that 
Faust  might  have  become  better  as  a  regular  acting 
drama ;  but  it  is  quite  instructive  to  conceive  from 
this  greatest  poem  of  the  Germans,  how  the  laws  of 
creation,  even  with  the  freest  exercise  of  invention, 
demanded  obedience  to  dramatic  form.  This  poem, 
too,  has  its  exciting  force,  the  entrance  of  Mephis- 
topheles  into  Faust's  room.  What  precedes  is 
exposition;  the  dramatically  animated  action 
includes  the  relations  of  Faust  and  Gretchen;  it 
has  its  rising,  and  its  falling  half;  from  the  appear- 
ance of  Mephistopheles,  it  ascends  to  the  climax,  to 
the  scene  which  refers  to  the  surrender  of  Gretchen 
to  Faust ;  from  there  it  descends  to  the  catastrophe. 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.         123 

The  unusual  form  of  the  structure  lies,  aside  from 
the  later  episodes,  only  in  this,  that  the  scenes  of 
the  introduction,  and  of  the  exciting  force,  occupy 
half  of  the  play,  and  that  the  climax  is  not  brought 
out  with  sufficient  strength.  As  for  the  rest,  the 
piece,  the  scenes  of  which  glitter  like  a  string  of 
pearls,  has  a  little  complete,  well-ordered  action,  of 
a  simple  and  even  regular  character.  It  is  neces- 
sary only  to  think  of  the  meeting  with  Gretchen  as 
at  the  end  of  the  first  act. 

Shakespeare  treats  the  inception  of  the  animated 
movement  with  special  care.  If  the  exciting  force 
is  ever  too  small  and  weak  for  him,  as  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  he  understands  how  to  strengthen  it.  There- 
fore, Romeo,  after  his  conclusion  to  intrude  upon 
the  Capulets,  must  pronounce  his  gloomy  forebod- 
ings before  the  house.  In  three  pieces,  Shakes- 
peare has  yielded  to  his  inclination  to  repeat  a 
motive,  each  time  with  increased  effect.  As  in  the 
scene  in  Othello,  "Put  money  in  thy  purse,"  is  a 
variation  of  the  introductory  note,  so  are  the  weird 
sisters,  who  excite  the  bloody  thought  in  Macbeth, 
so  is  the  ghost  which  announces  the  murder  to 
Hamlet.  What  at  the  beginning  of  the  piece  indi- 
cated tone  and  color,  becomes  the  inciting  force  for 
the  soul  of  the  hero. 

From  the  examples  cited,  it  is  evident  that  this 
force  of  the  action  treads  the  stage  under  very 
diverse  forms.  It  may  fill  a  complete  scene  ;  it  may 
be  comprised  in  a  few  words.  It  must  not  always 
press  from  without  into  the  soul  of  the  hero  or  his 


124      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

adversary  ;  it  may  be,  also,  a  thought,  a  wish,  a  reso- 
lution, which  by  a  succession  of  representations  may 
be  allured  from  the  soul  of  the  hero  himself.  But 
it  always  forms  the  transition  from  the  introduction 
to  the  ascending  action,  either  entering  suddenly, 
like  Mortimer's  declaration  in  Mary  Stuart,  and  the 
rescue  of  Baumgarten  in  William  Tell,  or  gradually 
developing  through  the  speeches  and  mental  pro- 
cesses of  the  characters,  like  Brutus's  resolve  to  do 
the  murder,  where  in  no  place  in  the  dialogue  the 
fearful  words  are  pronounced,  but  the  significance  of 
the  scene  is  emphasized  by  the  suspicion  which 
Caesar,  entering  meantime,  expresses. 

Yet  it  is  for  the  worker  to  notice,  that  this  force 
seldom  admits  of  great  elaboration.  Its  place  is  at 
the  beginning  of  the  piece,  where  powerful  pressure 
upon  the  hearer  is  neither  necessary  nor  advisable. 
It  has  the  character  of  a  motive  which  gives  direc- 
tion and  preparation,  and  does  not  offer  a  single 
resting-place.  It  must  not  be  insignificant ;  but  it 
must  not  be  so  strong  that,  according  to  the  feeling 
of  the  audience,  it  takes  too  much  from  what  fol- 
lows, or  that  the  suspense  which  it  causes,  may 
modify,  or  perhaps  determine,  the  fate  of  the  hero. 
Hamlet's  suspicion  can  not  be  raised  to  uncondi- 
tional certainty  by  the  revelation  of  the  ghost,  or 
the  course  of  the  piece  must  be  entirely  different. 
The  resolution  of  Cassius  and  Brutus  must  not 
come  out  in  distinct  words,  in  order  that  Brutus's 
following  consideration  of  the  matter,  and  the 
administration  of  the  oath,  may  seem  a  progress. 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       125 

The  poet  will,  probably,  sometimes  have  to  moderate 
the  importance  attached  to  this  force,  which  has 
made  it  too  conspicuous.  But  he  must  always 
bring  it  into  operation  as  soon  as  possible ;  for 
only  from  its  introduction  forward  does  earnest 
dramatic  work  begin. 

A  convenient  arrangement  for  our  stage  is  to 
give  the  exciting  force  in  a  temperate  scene  after 
the  introduction,  and  closely  join  to  this  the  first 
following  rising  movement,  in  greater  elaboration. 
Mary  Stuart,  for  example,  is  of  this  regular  struc- 
ture. 

The  Rising  Movement. — The  action  has  been 
started ;  the  chief  persons  have  shown  what  they 
are ;  the  interest  has  been  awakened.  Mood,  pas- 
sion, involution  have  received  an  impulse  in  a  given 
direction.  In  the  modern  drama  of  three  hours, 
they  are  no  insignificant  parts,  which  belong  to  this 
ascent.  Its  arrangement  has  comparatively  little 
significance.  The  following  are  the  general  rules: 

If  it  has  not  been  possible  to  accord  a  place  in 
what  has  gone  before,  to  the  most  important  persons 
in  the  counter-play,  or  to  the  chief  groups,  a  place 
must  be  made  for  them  now,  and  opportunity  must 
be  given  for  an  activity  full  of  meaning.  Such  per- 
sons, too,  as  are  of  importance  in  the  last  half,  must 
eagerly  desire  now  to  make  themselves  known  to  the 
audience.  Whether  the  ascent  is  made  by  one  or 
several  stages  to  the  climax,  depends  on  material 
and  treatment.  In  any  case,  a  resting  place  in  the 
action,  and  even  in  the  structure  of  a  scene,  is  to  be 


126      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

so  expressed  that  the  dramatic  moments,  acts,  scenes, 
which  belong  to  the  same  division  of  the  action,  are 
joined  together  so  as  to  produce  a  unified  chief 
scene,  subordinate  scene,  connecting  scene.  In  Julius 
C&sar,  for  instance,  the  ascent,  from  the  moment 
of  excitation  to  the  climax,  consists  of  only  one 
stage,  the  conspiracy.  This  makes,  with  the  pre- 
paratory scene,  and  the  scene  of  the  contrast 
belonging  to  it,  an  attractive  scene-group  very  beau- 
tifully constructed,  even  according  to  the  demands 
of  our  stage ;  and  with  this  group,  those  scenes  are 
closely  joined  which  are  grouped  about  the  murder- 
scene,  the  climax  of  the  play.  On  the  other  hand, 
the  rising  movement  in  Romeo  and  Juliet,  runs 
through  four  stages  to  the  climax.  The  structure 
of  this  ascending  group  is  as  follows.  First  stage : 
masked  ball ;  three  parts,  two  preparatory  scenes 
(Juliet  with  her  mother,  and  nurse)  (Romeo  and  his 
companions) ;  and  one  chief  scene  (the  ball  itself, 
consisting  of  one  suggestion — conversation  of  the 
servants — and  four  forces — Capulet  stirring  up  mat- 
ters; Tybalt's  rage  and  setting  things  to  rights;  con- 
versation of  the  lovers ;  Juliet  and  the  nurse  as  con- 
clusion). Second  stage:  The  garden  scene  ;  short 
preparatory  scene  (Benvolio  and  Mercutio  seeking 
Romeo)  and  the  great  chief  scene  (the  lovers  deter- 
mining upon  marriage).  Third  stage:  The  mar- 
riage; four  parts;  first  scene,  Laurence  and  Romeo; 
second  scene,  Romeo  and  companions,  and  nurse  as 
messenger;  third  scene,  Juliet,  and  nurse  as  messen- 
ger; fourth  scene,  Laurence  and  the  lovers,  and  the 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.       127 

marriage.  Fourth  stage  :  Tybalt's  death  ;  fighting 
scene. 

Then  follows  the  group  of  scenes  forming  the 
climax,  beginning  with  Juliet's  words,  "  Gallop  apace 
you  fiery  footed  steeds,"  and  extending  to  Romeo's 
farewell,  "  It  were  a  grief,  so  brief  to  part  with  thee  ; 
farewell."  In  the  four  stages  of  the  rise,  one  must 
notice  the  different  structure  of  individual  scenes. 
In  the  masked  ball,  little  scenes  are  connected  in 
quick  succession  to  the  close ;  the  garden  scene  is 
the  elaborate  great  scene  of  the  lovers ;  in  beautiful 
contrast  with  this,  in  the  marriage  scene-group,  the 
accomplice,  Laurence,  and  the  nurse  are  kept  in  the 
foreground,  the  lovers  are  concealed.  Tybalt's 
death  is  the  strong  break  which  separates  the  aggre- 
gate rise  from  the  climax ;  the  scenes  of  this  part 
have  a  loftier  swing,  a  more  passionate  movement. 
The  arrangement  of  the  piece  is  very  careful ;  the 
progress  of  both  heroes  and  their  motives  are  spe- 
cially laid  for  each  in  every  two  adjoining  scenes 
with  parallel  course. 

This  same  kind  of  rise,  slower,  with  less  fre- 
quently changing  scenes,  is  common  with  the  Ger- 
mans. In  Love  and  Intrigue,  for  example,  the 
exciting  force  of  the  play  is  the  announcement  of 
Wurm  to  his  father  that  Ferdinand  loves  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  musician.  From  here  the  piece  rises  in 
counterplay  through  four  stages.  First  stage:  (the 
father  demands  the  marriage  with  Milford)  in  two 
scenes;  preparatory  scene  (he  has  the  betrothal 
announced  through  Kalb);  chief  scene  (he  compels 


128      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  son  to  visit  Milford).  Second  stage:  (Ferdi- 
nand and  Milford)  two  preparatory  scenes;  great 
chief  scene  (the  lady  insists  on  marrying  him). 
Third  stage  :  Two  preparatory  scenes  ;  great  chief 
scene  (the  president  will  put  Louise  under  arrest, 
Ferdinand  resists).  Fourth  stage:  Two  scenes 
(plan  of  the  president  with  the  letter,  and  the  plot 
of  the  villains).  The  climax  follows  this:  Chief 
scene,  the  composition  of  the  letter.  This  piece  also 
has  the  peculiarity  of  having  two  heroes — the  two 
lovers. 

The  import  of  the  play  is,  it  must  be  owned, 
painful ;  but  the  construction  is,  with  some  awk- 
wardness in  the  order  of  scenes,  still,  on  the  whole, 
regular,  and  worthy  of  special  consideration,  because 
it  is  produced  far  more  through  the  correct  feeling 
of  the  young  poet,  than  through  a  sure  technique. 

As  to  the  scenes  of  this  rising  movement,  it  may 
be  said,  they  have  to  produce  a  progressive  inten- 
sity of  interest ;  they  must,  therefore,  not  only 
evince  progress  in  their  import,  but  they  must  show 
an  enlargement  in  form  and  treatment,  and,  indeed, 
with  variation  and  shading  in  execution ;  if  several 
steps  are  necessary,  the  next  to  the  last,  or  the  last, 
must  preserve  the  character  of  a  chief  scene. 

The  Climax. — The  climax  of  the  drama  is  the 
place  in  the  piece  where  the  results  of  the  rising 
movement  come  out  strong  and  decisively ;  it  is 
almost  always  the  crowning  point  of  a  great,  ampli- 
fied scene,  enclosed  by  the  smaller  connecting  scenes 
cf  the  rising,  and  of  the  falling  action.  The  poet 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA.       129 

needs  to  use  all  the  splendor  of  poetry,  all  the 
dramatic  skill  of  his  art,  in  order  to  make  vividly 
conspicuous  this  middle  point  of  his  artistic  crea- 
tion. It  has  the  highest  significance  only  in  those 
pieces  in  which  the  hero,  through  his  own  mental 
processes,  impels^  the  ascending  action ;  in  those 
dramas  which  rise  by  means  of  the  counter-play,  it 
does  not  indicate  an  important  place,  where  this  play 
has  attained  the  mastery  of  the  chief  hero,  and  mis- 
leads him  in  the  direction  of  the  fall.  Splendid 
examples  are  to  be  found  in  almost  every  one  of 
Shakespeare's  plays  and  in  the  plays  of  the  Ger- 
mans. The  hovel  scene  in  King  Lear,  with  the  play 
of  the  three  deranged  persons,  and  the  judgment 
scene  with  the  stool,  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most 
effective  that  was  ever  put  on  the  stage ;  and  the 
rising  action  in  Lear,  up  to  the  scene  of  this  irre- 
pressible madness,  is  of  terrible  magnificence.  The 
scene  is  also  remarkable  because  the  great  poet  has 
here  used  humor  to  intensify  the  horrible  effect,  and 
because  this  is  one  of  the  very  rare  places,  where 
the  audience,  in  spite  of  the  awful  commotion,  per- 
ceives with  a  certain  surprise  that  Shakespeare  uses 
artifices  to  bring  out  the  effect.  Edgar  is  no  fortu- 
nate addition  to  the  scene.  In  another  way,  the 
banquet  scene  in  Macbeth  is  instructive.  In  this 
tragedy,  a  previous  scene,  the  night  of  the  murder, 
had  been  so  powerfully  worked  out,  and  so  richly 
endowed  with  the  highest  dramatic  poetry,  that  there 
might  easily  be  despair  as  to  the  possibility  of  any 
further  rise  in  the  action.  And  yet  it  is  effected  ; 


130      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  murderer's  struggle  with  the  ghost,  and  the  fear- 
ful struggles  with  his  conscience,  in  the  restless 
scene  to  which  the  social  festivity  and  royal  splen- 
dor give  the  most  effective  contrasts,  are  pictured 
with  a  truth,  and  in  a  wild  kind  of  poetic  frenzy, 
which  make  the  hearer's  heart  throb  and  shudder. 
In  Othello,  on  the  other  hand,  the  climax  lies  in  the 
great  scene  in  which  lago  arouses  Othello's  jeal- 
ousy. It  is  slowly  prepared,  and  is  the  beginning 
of  the  convulsing  soul-conflict  in  which  the  hero 
perishes.  In  Clavigo,  the  reconciliation  of  Clavigo 
with  Marie,  and  in  Emilia  Galotti,  the  prostration  of 
Emilia,  form  the  climax,  concealed  in  both  cases  by 
the  predominating  counter-play.  Again,  in  Schiller, 
it  is  powerfully  developed  in  all  plays. 

This  outburst  of  deed  from  the  soul  of  the  hero, 
or  the  influx  of  portentous  impressions  into  the  soul ; 
the  first  great  result  of  a  sublime  struggle,  or  the 
beginning  of  a  mortal  inward  conflict,— must  appear 
inseparably  connected  with  what  goes  before  as  well 
as  with  what  follows ;  it  will  be  brought  into  relief 
through  broad  treatment  or  strong  effect;  but  it 
will,  as  a  rule,  be  represented  in  its  development 
from  the  rising  movement  and  its  effect  on  the 
environment;  therefore,  the  climax  naturally  forms 
the  middle  point  of  a  ^roup  of  forces,  which,  dart- 
ing in  either  direction,  course  upward  and  down- 
ward. 

In  the  case  where  the  climax  is  connected  with 
the  downward  movement  by  a  tragic  force,  the 
structure  of  the  drama  presents  something  peculiar, 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        131 

through  the  juxtaposition  of  two  important  passages 
which  stand  in  sharp  contrast  with  each  other.  This 
tragic  force  must  first  receive  attention.  This 
beginning  of  the  downward  movement  is  best  con- 
nected with  the  climax,  and  separated  from  the  fol- 
lowing forces  of  the  counter-play  to  which  it  belongs 
by  a  division  —  our  close  of  an  act;  and  this  is  best 
brought  about  not  immediately  after  the  beginning 
of  the  tragic  force,  but  by  a  gradual  modulation  of 
its  sharp  note.  It  is  a  matter  of  indifference 
whether  this  connection  of  the  two  great  contrasted 
scenes  is  effected  by  uniting  them  into  one  scene,  or 
by  means  of  a  connecting  scene.  A  splendid  exam- 
ple of  the  former  is  in  Coriolanus. 

In  this  piece,  the  action  rises  from  the  exciting 
force  (the  news  that  war  with  the  Volscians  is  inev- 
itable) through  the  first  ascent  (fight  between 
Coriolanus  and  Aufidius)  to  the  climax,  the  nomi- 
nation of  Coriolanus  as  consul.  The  tragic  force, 
the  banishment,  begins  here ;  what  seems  about  to 
become  the  highest  elevation  of  the  hero,  becomes 
by  his  untamable  pride  just  the  opposite ;  he  is 
overthrown.  This  overthrow  does  not  occur  sud- 
denly ;  it  is  seen  to  perfect  itself  gradually  on  the 
stage — as  Shakespeare  loves  to  have  it — and  what 
is  overwhelming  in  the  result  is  first  perceived  at 
the  close  of  the  scene.  The  two  points,  bound 
together  here  by  the  rapid  action,  form  together  a 
powerful  group  of  scenes  of  violent  commotion,  the 
whole  of  far-reaching  and  splendid  effect.  But, 
also,  after  the  close  of  this  double  scene,  the  action 


132      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

is  not  at  once  cut  into  ;  for  there  is  immediately 
joined  to  this,  as  contrast,  the  beautiful,  dignified 
pathos  scene  of  the  farewell,  which  forms  a  transi- 
tion to  what  follows ;  and  yet  after  the  hero  has 
departed,  this  helps  to  exhibit  the  moods  of  those 
remaining  behind,  as  a  trembling  echo  of  the  fierce 
excitement,  before  the  point  of  repose  is  reached. 

The  climax  and  the  tragic  force  are  still  more 
closely  united  in  Mary  Stuart.  Here,  also,  the 
beginning  of  the  climax  is  sharply  denoted  by  the 
monologue  and  the  elevated  lyric  mood  of  Mary, 
after  the  style  of  an  ancient  pathos  scene;  and  this 
mood  scene  is  bound  by  a  little  connecting  song  to 
the  great  dialogue  scene  between  Mary  and  Eliza- 
beth ;  but  the  dramatic  climax  reaches  even  into 
this  great  scene,  and  in  this  lies  the  transition  to  the 
ominous  strife,  which  again  in  its  development  is 
set  forth  in  minute  detail. 

Somewhat  more  sharply  are  the  climax  and  tragic 
force  in  Julius  Ccesar  separated  from  each  other  by 
a  complete  connecting  scene.  The  group  of  murder 
scenes  is  followed  by  the  elaborate  scene  of  the 
conspirators'  conversation  with  Antony — this  inter- 
polated passage  of  beautiful  workmanship — and 
after  this  the  oration  scenes  of  Brutus  and  Antony ; 
and  after  this  follow  little  transitions  to  the  parts  of 
the  return. 

This  close  connection  of  the  two  important  parts 
gives  to  the  drama  with  tragic  force  a  magnitude 
and  expanse  of  the  middle  part,  which  —  if  the 
playful  comparison  of  the  lines  may  be  carried  out, 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        133 

—  changes    the    pyramidal    form    into    one    with  a 
double  apex. 

The  most  difficult  part  of  the  drama  is  the 
sequence  of  scenes  in  the  downward  movement,  or, 
as  it  may  well  be  called,  the  return  ;  specially  in 
powerful  plays  in  which  the  heroes  are  the  directing 
force,  do  these  dangers  enter  most.  Up  to  the  ' 
climax,  the  interest  has  been  firmly  fixed  in  the 
direction  in  which  the  chief  characters  are  moving. 
After  the  deed  is  consummated,  a  pause  ensues.  ; 
Suspense  must  now  be  excited  in  what  is  new.  For  . 
this,  new  forces,  perhaps  new  roles,  must  be  intro- 
duced, in  which  the  hearer  is  to  acquire  interest. 
On  account  of  this,  there  is  already  danger  in  dis- 
traction and  in  the  breaking  up  of  scenic  effects. 
And  yet,  it  must  be  added,  the  hostility  of  the 
counter-party  toward  the  hero  cannot  always  be 
easily  concentrated  in  one  person  nor  in  one  situa- 
tion ;  sometimes  it  is  necessary  to  show  how  fre- 
quently, now  and  again,  it  beats  upon  the  soul  of  the 
hero ;  and  in  this  way,  in  contrast  with  the  unity 
and  firm  advance  of  the  first  half  of  the  play,  the 
second  may  be  ruptured,  in  many  parts,  restless ; 
this  is  particularly  the  case  with  historical  subjects, 
where  it  is  most  difficult  to  compose  the  counter- 
party of  a  few  characters  only. 

And  yet  the  return  demands  a  strong  bringing 
out  and  intensifying  of  the  scenic  effects,  on  account 
of  the  satisfaction  already  accorded  the  hearer,  and 
on  account  of  the  greater  significance  of  the  strug- 
gle. Therefore,  the  first  law  for  the  construction  of 


134      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

this  part  is  that  the  number  of  persons  be  limited 
as  much  as  possible,  and  that  the  effects  be  com- 
prised in  great  scenes.  All  the  art  of  technique,  all 
the  power  of  invention,  are  necessary  to  insure  here 
an  advance  in  interest. 

One  thing  more.  This  part  of  the  drama  spec- 
ially lays  claims  upon  the,  character  of  the  poet. 
Fate  wins  control  over  the  hero ;  his  battles  move 
toward  a  momentous  close,  which  affects  his  whole 
life.  There  is  no  longer  time  to  secure  effects  by 
means  of  little  artifices,  careful  elaboration,  beauti- 
ful details,  neat  motives.  The  essence  of  the 
whole,  idea  and  conduct  of  the  action,  comes  for- 
ward powerfully ;  the  audience  understands  the 
connection  of  events,  sees  the  ultimate  purpose 
of  the  poet ;  he  must  now  exert  himself  for  the  high- 
est effects ;  he  begins,  testing  every  step  in  the 
midst  of  his  interest,  to  contribute  to  this  work 
from  the  mass  of  his  knowledge,  of  his  spiritual 
affinities,  and  of  what  meets  the  wants  of  his  own 
nature.  Every  error  in  construction,  every  lack  in 
characterization,  will  now  be  keenly  felt.  Therefore 
the  second  rule  is  valuable  for  this  part ;  only  great 
strokes,  great  effects.  Even  the  episodes  which 
are  now  ventured,  must  have  a  certain  significance, 
a  certain  energy.  How  numerous  the  stages  must 
be  through  which  the  hero's  fall  passes,  cannot  be 
fixed  by  rule,  farther  than  that  the  return  makes  a 
a  less  number  desirable  than,  in  general,  the  rising 
movement  allows.  For  the  gradual  increase  of 
these  effects,  it  will  be  useful  to  insert,  just  before 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        135 

the  catastrophe,  a  finished  scene  which  either  shows 
the  contending  forces  in  the  strife  with  the  hero,  in 
the  most  violent  activity,  or  affords  a  clear  insight 
into  the  life  of  the  hero.  The  great  scene,  Corio- 
lanus  and  his  mother,  is  an  example  of  the  one  case  ; 
the  monologue  of  Juliet,  before  taking  the  sleep 
potion,  and  the  sleep-walking  scene  of  Lady  Mac- 
beth, of  the  other  case. 

The  Force  of  the  Final  Suspense, — It  is  well  under- 
stood that  the  catastrophe  must  not  come  entirely 
as  a  surprise  to  the  audience.  The  more  powerful 
the  climax,  the  more  violent  the  downfall  of  the 
hero,  so  much  the  more  vividly  must  the  end  be  felt 
in  advance ;  the  less  the  dramatic  power  of  the  poet 
in  the  middle  of  the  piece,  the  more  pains  will  he 
take  toward  the  end,  and  the  more  will  he  seek  to 
make  use  of  striking  effects.  Shakespeare  never 
does  this,  in  his  regularly  constructed  pieces. 
Easily,  quickly,  almost  carelessly,  he  projects  the 
catastrophe,  without  surprising,  with  new  effects ;  it 
is  for  him  such  a  necessary  consequence  of  the 
whole  previous  portion  of  the  piece,  and  the  master 
is  so  certain  to  bear  forward  the  audience  with  him, 
that  he  almost  hastens  over  the  necessities  of  the 
close.  This  talented  man  very  correctly  perceived, 
that  it  is  necessary,  in  good  time  to  prepare  the 
mind  of  the  audience  for  the  catastrophe ;  for  this 
reason,  Caesar's  ghost  appears  to  Brutus ;  for  this 
reason,  Edmund  tells  the  soldier  he  must  in  certain 
circumstances  slay  Lear  and  Cordelia;  for  this 
reason,  Romeo  must,  still  before  Juliet's  tomb,  slay 


136      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Paris,  in  order  that  the  audience,  which  at  this 
moment,  no  longer  thinks  of  Tybalt's  death,  may 
not,  after  all,  cherish  the  hope  that  the  piece  will 
close  happily ;  for  this  reason,  must  the  mortal 
envy  of  Aufidius  toward  Coriolanus  be  repeatedly 
expressed  before  the  great  scene  of  the  return  of 
the  action;  and  Coriolanus  must  utter  these  great 
words,  "Thou  hast  lost  thy  son;"  for  this  reason 
the  king  must  previously  discuss  with  Laertes  the 
murdering  of  Hamlet  by  means  of  a  poisoned 
rapier.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  it  is  sometimes 
hazardous  to  hasten  to  the  end  without  interrup- 
tion. Just  at  the  time  when  the  weight  of  an  evil 
destiny  has  already  long  burdened  the  hero,  for 
whom  the  active  sympathy  of  the  audience  is  hop: 
ing  relief,  although  rational  consideration  makes 
the  inherent  necessity  of  his  destruction  very  evi- 
dent,—  in  such  a  case,  it  is  an  old,  unpretentious 
poetic  device,  to  give  the  audience  for  a  few 
moments  a  prospect  of  relief.  This  is  done  by 
means  of  a  new,  slight  suspense  ;  a  slight  hindrance, 
a  distant  possibility  of  a  happy  release,  is  thrown  in 
the  way  of  the  already  indicated  direction  of  the 
end.  Brutus  must  explain  that  he  considers  it 
cowardly  to  kill  one's  self;  the  dying  Edmund 
must  revoke  the  command  to  kill  Lear;  Friar 
Laurence  may  still  enter  before  the  moment  when 
Romeo  kills  himself;  Coriolanus  may  yet  be 
acquitted  by  the  judges ;  Macbeth  is  still  invul- 
nerable from  any  man  born  of  woman,  even  when 
Burnam  Wood  is  approaching  his  castle ;  even  Rich- 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       137 

ard  III.  receives  the  news  that  Richmond's  fleet  is 
shattered  and  dispersed  by  the  storm.  The  use  of 
this  artifice  is  old ;  Sophocles  used  it  to  good  pur- 
pose in  Antigone;  Creon  is  softened,  and  revokes 
the  death  sentence  of  Antigone  ;  if  it  has  gone  so 
far  with  her  as  he  commanded,  yet  she  may  be 
saved.  It  is  worthy  of  note  that  the  Greeks  looked 
upon  this  fine  stroke  far  differently  from  the  way 
we  regard  it. 

Yet  it  requires  a  fine  sensibility  to  make  good 
use  of  this  force.  It  must  not  be  insignificant  or 
it  will  n«»t  have  the  desired  effect ;  it  must  be  made 
to  grow  out  of  the  action  and  out  of  the  character 
of  the  persons;  it  must  not  come  out  so  prominent 
that  it  essentially  changes  the  relative  position  of 
the  parties.  Above  the  rising  possibility,  the  spec- 
tator must  always  perceive  the  downward  com- 
pelling force  of  what  has  preceded. 

The  Catastrophe. — The  catastrophe  of  the  drama 
is  the  closing  action ;  it  is  what  the  ancient  stage 
called  the  exodus.  In  it  the  embarrassment  of  the 
chief  characters  is  relieved  through  a  great  deed. 
The  more  profound  the  strife  which  has  gone  for- 
ward in  the  hero's  soul,  the  more  noble  its  purpose 
has  been,  so  much  more  logical  will  the  destruction 
of  the  succumbing  hero  be. 

And  the  warning  must  be  given  here,  that  the 
poet  should  not  allow  himself  to  be  misled  by 
modern  tender-heartedness,  to  spare  the  life  of  his 
hero  on  the  stage.  The  drama  must  present  an 
action,  including  within  itself  all  its  parts,  excluding 


138      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

all  else,  perfectly  complete  ;  if  the  struggle  of  a  hero 
has  in  fact,  taken  hold  of  his  entire  life,  it  is  not 
old  tradition,  but  inherent  necessity,  that  the  poet 
shall  make  the  complete  ruin  of  that  life  impressive. 
That  to  the  modern  mind,  a  life  not  weak,  may,  under 
certain  circumstances,  survive  mortal  conflicts,  does 
not  change  anything  for  the  drama,  in  this  matter. 
As  for  the  power  and  vitality  of  an  existence  which 
lies  subsequent  to  the  action  of  the  piece,  the  innu- 
merable reconciling  and  reviving  circumstances  which 
may  consecrate  a  new  life,  these,  the  drama  shall 
not  and  can  not  represent ;  and  a  reference  to  them 
will  never  afford  to  the  audience  the  satisfaction  of 
a  definite  conclusion. 

Concerning  the  end  of  the  heroes,  however,  it 
must  be  said,  the  perception  of  the  reasonableness 
and  necessity  of  such  a  destruction,  while  reconcil- 
ing and  elevating,  must  be  vivid.  This  is  possible 
only  when,  by  the  doom  of  the  heroes,  a  real  adjust- 
ment of  conflicting  forces  is  produced.  It  is  neces- 
sary, in  the  closing  words  of  the  drama,  to  recall 
that  nothing  accidental,  nothing  happening  but  a 
single  time,  has  been  presented,  but  a  poetic  crea- 
tion, which  has  a  universally  intelligible  meaning. 

To  the  more  recent  poets,  the  catastrophe  is 
accustomed  to  present  difficulties.  This  is  not  a 
good  sign.  It  requires  unembarrassed  judgment  to 
discover  the  reconciliation  which  is  not  opposed  to 
the  feeling  of  the  audience,  and  yet  embraces  col- 
lectively the  necessary  results  of  the  piece.  Crude- 
ness  and  a  weak  sensibility  offend  most  where  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA.       139 

entire  work  of  the  stage  should  find  its  justification 
and  confirmation.  But  the  catastrophe  contains 
only  the  necessary  consequences  of  the  action  and 
the  characters ;  whoever  has  borne  both  firmly  in 
his  soul,  can  have  little  doubt  about  the  conclusion 
of  his  play.  Indeed,  since  the  whole  construction 
points  toward  the  end,  a  powerful  genius  may  rather 
be  exposed  to  the  opposite  danger  of  working  out 
the  end  too  soon,  and  bearing  it  about  with  him  fin- 
ished ;  then  the  ending  may  come  into  contradiction 
with  the  fine  gradations  which  the  previous  parts 
have  received  during  the  elaboration.  Something 
of  this  kind  is  noticeable  in  The  Prince  of  Hamburg, 
where  the  somnambulism  at  the  close,  corresponding 
to  the  beginning,  and  manifestly  having  a  firm  place 
in  the  soul  of  the  poet,  is  not  at  all  in  accord  with 
the  clear  tone  and  free  treatment  of  the  fourth  and 
fifth  acts.  Similarly  in  Egmont,  the  conclusion, 
Clara,  as  freed  Holland  in  transfiguration,  can  be 
conceived  as  written  sooner  than  the  last  scene  of 
Clara  herself  in  the  piece,  with  which  this  conclu- 
sion is  not  consistent. 

For  the  construction  of  the  catastrophe,  the  fol- 
lowing rules  are  of  value  :  First,  avoid  every  unnec- 
essary word,  and  leave  no  word  unspoken  whereby 
the  idea  of  the  piece  can,  without  effort,  be  made 
clear  from  the  nature  of  the  characters.  Further, 
the  poet  must  deny  himself  broad  elaboration  of 
scenes ;  must  keep  what  he  presents  dramatically, 
brief,  simple,  free  from  ornament ;  must  give  in  dic- 
tion and  action,  the  best  and  most  impressive ;  must 


140      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

confine  the  scenes  with  their  indispensable  connec- 
tions within  a  small  body,  with  quick,  pulsating  life  ; 
must  avoid,  so  long  as  the  action  is  in  progress,  new 
or  difficult  stage-effects,  especially  the  effects  of 
masses. 

There  are  many  different  qualities  of  a  poetic 
nature,  which  are  called  into  operation  in  these  eight 
parts  of  the  drama  on  which  its  artistic  structure 
rests.  To  find  a  good  introduction  and  a  stimula- 
ting force  which  arouses  the  hero's  soul  and  keeps  it 
in  suspense,  is  the  task  of  shrewdness  and  expe- 
rience ;  to  bring  out  a  strong  climax  is  specially  the 
business  of  poetic  power  ;  to  make  the  closing  catas- 
trophe effective  requires  a  manly  heart  and  an 
exalted  power  of  deliberation ;  to  make  the  return 
effective  is  the  most  difficult.  Here  neither  experi- 
ence nor  poetic  resource,  nor  yet  a  wise,  clear  vision 
of  the  poetic  spirit,  can  guarantee  success ;  it 
requires  a  union  of  all  these  properties.  In  addition, 
it  requires  a  good  subject  and  some  good  ideas,  that 
is,  good  luck.  Of  the  component  parts  discussed, 
all  of  them,  or  such  as  are  necessary,  every  artistic 
drama  of  ancient  or  modern  times  is  composed. 

III. 
SOPHOCLES'  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  tragedy  of  the  Athenians  still  exercises  its 
power  over  the  creative  poet  of  the  present ;  not 
only  the  imperishable  beauty  of  its  contents,  but  its 
poetic  form  influences  our  poetic  work ;  the  tragedy 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        141 

of  antiquity  has  essentially  contributed  to  separate 
our  drama  from  the  stage  productions  of  the  middle 
ages,  and  give  it  a  more  artistic  structure  and  more 
profound  meaning.  Therefore,  before  an  account  is 
given  of  the  technical  arrangement  in  the  tragedies 
of  Sophocles,  it  will  be  necessary  to  recall  those 
peculiarities  of  the  ancient  stage,  which,  so  far  as 
we  can  judge,  with  their  demands  and  limitations, 
controlled  the  Athenian  poet.  What  is  easily  found 
elsewhere  will  be  but  briefly  mentioned  here. 

The  tragedy  of  the  old  world  grew  out  of  the 
dithvrambic  solo  songs  with  choruses,  which  were 
used  in  the  Dionysian  spring-time  festivals ;  gradu- 
ally the  speeches  of  individuals  were  introduced 
between  the  dithyrambs  and  choruses,  and  were 
enlarged  to  an  action.  The  tragedy  retained  from 
these  beginnings,  the  chorus,  the  song  of  single 
leading  roles  in  the  moments  of  highest  excitement, 
the  alternating  songs  of  the  actors  and  of  the  chorus. 
It  was  a  natural  consequence  that  the  part  of  the 
tragedy  won  the  mastery,  and  the  chorus  receded. 
In  the  oldest  plays  of  ^Eschylus,  The  Persians  and 
The  Suppliants,  the  choral  songs  arc  by  far  the  larger 
part.  They  have  a  beauty,  a  magnitude,  and  so 
powerful  a  dramatic  movement  that  neither  in  out 
oratorios  nor  in  our  operas  is  there  much  that  can 
be  compared  with  them.  The  short  incidental  sen- 
tences interpolated,  spoken  by  individual  characters, 
and  not  lyric-musical,  serve  almost  entirely  as 
motives  to  produce  new  moods  in  the  solo  singer 
and  the  chorus.  But  already  in  the  time  of 


142      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Euripides,  the  chorus  had  stepped  into  the  back- 
ground, its  connection  with  the  developed  action 
was  loose,  it  sank  from  its  position  of  guide  and 
confidant  of  the  chief  characters  to  a  quite  unessen- 
tial part  of  the  drama,  choral  songs  of  one  drama 
were  used  for  another;  and  at  last  they  represented 
nothing  but  the  song  which  completed  the  interval 
between  acts.  But  the  lyric  element  remained  fixed 
in  the  action  itself.  Well-planned,  broadly  elab- 
orated sentimental  scenes  of  the  performers,  sung 
and  spoken,  remained  in  important  places  of  the 
action  an  indispensable  component  part  of  the 
tragedy.  These  pathos-scenes,  the  renown  of  the 
first  actor,  the  centre  of  brilliance  for  ancient  acting, 
contain  the  elements  of  the  lyric  situation  in  a  com- 
pleteness which  we  can  no  longer  imitate.  In  them 
are  comprised  the  touching  effects  of  the  tragedy. 
These  long-winded  gushings  of  inner  feeling  had  so 
great  a  charm  for  the  audience  that  to  such  scenes 
unity  and  verisimilitude  of  action  were  sacrificed  by 
the  weaker  poets.  But  however  beautiful  and  full 
the  feeling  sounds  in  them,  the  dramatic  movement 
is  not  great.  There  are  poetic  observations  upon 
one's  own  condition,  supplications  to  the  gods,  feel- 
ing portrayal  of  peculiar  relations.  The  first  of 
these  may  perhaps  be  compared  with  the  mono- 
logues of  modern  times,  although  in  them  the 
chorus  sometimes  represents  the  sympathising 
hearer,  sometimes  the  hearer  who  responds. 

That  extension  of   the   old    dithyrambic  songs, 
first  to  oratorios,  the  solo-singers  in  which  appeared 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.       143 

in  festal  costume  with  simple  pantomime,  then  to 
dramas  with  a  well-developed  art  of  representation, 
was  effected  by  means  of  an  action  which  was  taken 
almost  exclusively  from  the  realm  of  Hellenic 
heroic  legend  and  the  epic.  Isolated  attempts  or 
poets  to  extend  this  realm  remained,  on  the  whole, 
without  success.  Even  before  /Eschylus,  a  com- 
poser of  oratorios  had  once  attempted  to  make  use 
of  historical  material ;  the  oldest  drama  of  ^Eschylus 
which  has  been  preserved  for  us,  made  use  of  histor- 
ical material  of  the  immediate  past ;  but  the  Greeks 
had,  at  that  time,  no  historical  writings  at  all,  in  our 
sense  of  the  word.  A  successful  attempt  to  put  on 
the  stage  material  freely  invented,  had  in  the  flour- 
ishing time  of  the  Greek  tragedy  little  imitation. 

Such  a  restriction  to  a  well-defined  field  of  mate- 
rial was  a  blessing  as  well  as  a  doom  to  the  Attic 
stage.  It  confined  the  dramatic  situations  and  the 
dramatic  effects  to  a  rather  narrow  circle,  in  which 
the  older  poets  with  fresh  power  attained  the  highest 
success,  but  which  soon  gave  occasion  to  the  later 
poets  to  seek  new  effects  along  side-lines;  and  this 
made  the  decay  of  the  drama  unavoidable.  Indeed, 
there  was  between  the  world  from  which  the  mate- 
rial was  taken  and  the  essential  conditions  of  the 
drama,  an  inherent  opposition  which  the  highest 
skill  did  not  suffice  to  conquer,  and  at  which  the 
talents  of  Euripides  grew  powerless. 

The  species  of  poetry  which  before  the  develop- 
ment of  the  drama  had  made  legendary  subjects 
dear  to  the  people,  maintained  a  place  in  certain 


144      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

scenes  of  the  play.  It  was  a  popular  pleasure 
among  the  Greeks  to  listen  to  public  speeches,  and 
later,  to  have  epic  poems  read  to  them.  This  cus- 
tom gave  to  the  tragedy  longer  accounts  of  occur- 
rences which  were  essential  to  the  action,  and  these 
occupied  more  space  than  would  be  accorded  to 
them  in  the  later  drama.  For  the  stage,  the  narra- 
tive was  imbued  with  dramatic  vividness.  Heralds, 
messengers,  soothsayers,  are  standing  roles  for  such 
recitals ;  and  the  scenes  in  which  they  appear  have, 
as  a  rule,  the  same  disposition.  After  a  short  intro- 
duction, the  informants  give  their  narration  ;  then 
follow  a  few  longer  or  shorter  verses  of  like  meas- 
ure, quickly  exchanged  question  and  answer  ;  at  last 
the  result  of  the  announcement  is  compassed  in  brief 
words.  The  narrative  comes  in  where  it  is  most 
striking,  in  the  catastrophe.  The  last  exit  of  the 
hero  is  sometimes  only  announced. 

In  another  way,  the  conduct  of  the  scenes  was 
influenced  through  the  great  opportunity  of  the 
Attic  market,  the  judicial  proceedings.  It  was  a 
passion  of  the  people  to  listen  to  the  speeches  of 
the  accuser  and  of  the  defender.  The  highest 
artistic  development  of  Greek  judicial  oratory,  but 
also  the  artificial  manner  in  which  it  was  sought  to 
produce  effects,  fine  sophistical  rhetoric,  intruded 
upon  the  Attic  stage,  and  determined  the  character 
of  the  speaking  scenes.  These  scenes,  also,  con- 
sidered as  a  whole,  are  fashioned  according  to 
established  rules.  The  first  actor  delivers  a  little 
speech ;  the  second  answers  in  a  speech  of  similar, 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        145 

sometimes  exactly  equal  length  ;  then  follows  a  sort 
of  rotation  verses,  each  four  answered  by  another 
four,  three  by  three,  two  by  two,  one  by  one ;  then 
both  actors  resume  their  position  and  condense 
what  they  have  to  say,  in  second  speeches  ;  then 
follows  the  rattle  of  rotation  verses,  till  he  who  is  to 
be  victor,  once  more  briefly  explains  his  point  of 
view.  The  last  word,  a  slight  preponderance  in 
verses,  turns  the  scale.  This  structure,  sometimes 
interrupted  and  divided  by  interpolated  speeches  of 
the  chorus,  has  not  the  highest  dramatic  movement, 
despite  the  interchange  of  finished  oratory,  and  in 
spite  of  the  externally  strong  and  progressive 
animation ;  it  is  an  oratorical  exposition  of  a  point 
of  view ;  it  is  a  contest  with  subtle  arguments,  too 
oratorical  for  our  feeling,  too  calculated,  too  artifi- 
cial. One  party  is  seldom  convinced  by  the  other. 
Indeed  this  had  still  another  ground ;  for  it  is  not 
easily  allowed  to  an  Attic  hero  to  change  his  opin- 
ion on  account  of  the  orations  of  some  one  else. 
When  there  was  a  third  role  on  the  stage,  the  collo- 
quy preserved  the  character  of  a  dialogue  ;  sudden 
and  repeated  interlocking  of  the  characters  was 
infrequent,  and  only  momentary ;  if  the  third  role 
entered  into  the  colloquy,  the  second  retreated  ;  the 
change  was  usually  made  conspicuous  by  the  inser- 
tion of  a  choral  line.  Mass-scenes,  as  we  understand 
the  word,  were  not  known  on  the  ancient  stage. 

The  action  ran  through  these  pathos-scenes, 
messenger-scenes,  colloquy-scenes,  orations,  and 
announcements  of  official  persons  to  the  chorus.  If 


146      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

one  adds  to  these  the  revolution-scenes,  and  the 
recognition-scenes,  the  aggregate  contents  of  the 
piece  will  be  found  arranged  according  to  the  forms 
prescribed  by  the  craft.  The  endowment  of  the 
poets  is  preserved  for  us  in  the  way  they  knew  how 
to  give  animation  to  these  forms.  Sophocles  is 
greatest ;  and  for  this  reason,  what  is  constant  in 
his  works  is  most  varied  and,  as  it  were,  concealed. 
In  another  way,  the  construction  of  the  drama 
was  modified  through  the  peculiar  circumstances 
under  which  its  production  took  place.  The  Attic 
tragedies  were  presented  in  the  flourishing  time  of 
Athens,  on  the  days  of  the  Dionysian  festivals.  At 
these  festivals  the  poet  contested  with  his  rivals,  not 
as  author  of  the  dramas ;  but  when  he  did  not  also 
appear  himself  as  actor,  he  appeared  as  manager  or 
director.  As  such,  he  was  united  with  his  actors 
and  the  leader  of  the  chorus  in  a  partnership.  To 
each  poet,  a  day  was  allotted.  On  this  day  he 
must  produce  four  plays,  the  last  being,  as  a  rule,  a 
burlesque-play.  It  may  be  wondered  which  was 
the  most  astonishing,  the  creative  power  of  the  poet, 
or  the  endurance  of  the  audience.  If  we  conceive 
of  a  burlesque-play  added  to  the  trilogy  of  ^Eschy- 
lus,  and  estimate  the  time  required  for  the  perform- 
ance according  to  the  experience  of  our  stage,  and 
take  into  account  the  slowness  with  which  it  must 
be  delivered,  because  of  the  peculiar  acoustics  of  the 
great  hall,  and  the  necessity  of  a  sharp,  well-marked 
declamation,  this  representation  on  the  stage  must 
have  required,  with  its  brief  interruptions  at  the  end 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF   THE   DRAMA.       147 

of  pieces,  at  least  nine  hours.  Three  tragedies  of 
Sophocles,  together  with  the  burlesque,  must  have 
claimed  at  least  ten  hours.10 

The  three  serious  plays  were,  in  the  earlier  times, 
bound  into  one  consistent  action,  which  was  taken 
from  the  same  legendary  source.  So  long  as  this 
old  trilogy-form  lasted,  they  had  the  nature  of 
colossal  acts,  each  of  which  brought  a  part  of  the 
action  to  a  close.  When  Sophocles  had  disregarded 
this  custom,  and  as  contestant  for  the  prize,  put  on 
the  stage  three  independent,  complete  plays,  one 
after  another,  the  pieces  stood  worthy  of  confidence 
for  their  inner  relations.  How  far  a  heightening  of 
aggregate  effect  was  secured  by  significant  combina- 
tion of  ideas  and  action,  by  parallelism  and  contrast 
of  situations,  we  can  no  longer  ignore ;  but  it  follows 
from  the  nature  of  all  dramatic  representation,  that 
the  poet  must  have  aspired  to  a  progressive  rise,  a 
certain  aggregation  of  the  effects  then  possible.11 

And  as  the  spectators  sat  before  the  stage  in  the 
exalted  mood  of  the  holy  spring-festival,  so  the  chief 
actors  were  clothed  in  a  festal  costume.  The  cos- 
tume of  the  individual  roles  was  usually  prescribed 
strictly  according  to  the  custom  of  the  festival ;  the 
actors  wore  masks  with  an  aperture  for  the  mouth, 
the  high  cothurnus  on  their  feet,  the  body  padded, 
and  decked  with  long  garments.  Both  sides  of  the 
stage,  and  the  three  doors  in  the  background,  through 
which  the  actors  entered  and  made  their  exits,  were 
arranged  appropriately  for  their  use  in  the  piece. 

But  the  poet  contested  on  his  theatre  day,  through 


148      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

four  plays,  with  the  same  players,  who  were  called 
prize-contestants.  The  older  Attic  oratorios  had 
only  one  actor,  who  entered  in  different  roles  in  a 
different  costume  ;  yEschylus  added  a  second,  Sopho- 
cles added  a  third.  The  Attic  theatre  never,  in  its 
most  palmy  days,  exceeded  three  solo  actors.  This 
restriction  of  the  number  of  players  determined 
the  technique  of  the  Greek  tragedy,  more  than  any 
other  circumstance.  It  was,  however,  no  restriction 
which  any  resolute  will  could  have  dispensed  with. 
Not  external  reasons  alone  hindered  an  advance; 
old  tradition,  the  interest  which  the  state  took  in  the 
representations,  and  perhaps  not  less  the  circum- 
stance, that  the  immense  open  auditorium  on  the 
Acropolis,  which  seated  30,000  persons,  demanded 
a  metallic  quality  of  voice,  a  discipline  of  utterance 
possessed  certainly  by  very  few.  To  this  must  be 
added,  that  at  least  two  of  the  actors,  the  first  and 
the  second,  must  be  ready  singers,  before  an  exact- 
ing audience  with  a  delicate  ear  for  music.  Sopho- 
cles' first  actor  must,  during  an  effort  of  ten  hours, 
pronounce  about  1,600  lines,  and  sing  at  least  six 
greater  or  less  song  pieces.12 

This  task  would  be  great,  but  not  inconceivable 
to  us.  One  of  the  most  exacting  of  our  roles  is 
Richard  III.  This  includes  in  the  printed  text,  1 128 
lines,  of  which  more  than  200  are  usually  omitted. 
Our  lines  are  shorter,  there  is  no  song,  the  costume 
is  much  more  convenient,  the  voice  is  of  a  different 
kind,  comparatively  less  wearying;  the  effort  for 
gesture,  on  the  other  hand,  is  incomparably  greater; 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.       149 

on  the  whole,  the  creative  work  for  the  moment, 
much  more  significant;  there  is  a  very  different 
expenditure  of  nervous  energy.  For  our  actors  to 
compass  the  task  of  the  ancients,  would  present  no 
unconquerable  difficulties,  but  just  that  which  pre- 
sents itself  to  the  inexperienced  as  an  alleviation,  the 
prolonging  the  work  through  ten  hours.  And  if 
they  set  up  in  opposition  to  the  actor's  art  of  the 
ancients,  with  some  show  of  justice,  that  their  pres- 
ent task  is  a  greater  and  higher  one,  it  is  performed 
not  with  voice  alone,  but  with  facial  expression  and 
gesture  freely  invented,  yet  they  must  not  forget 
that  the  scantiness  of  Greek  pantomime,  which 
remained  restricted  through  masks  and  conventional 
movements  and  attitudes,  found  a  supplement  again 
in  a  remarkably  fine  culture  in  dramatic  enunciation. 
Old  witnesses  teach  us  that  a  single  false  tone,  a  sin- 
gle incorrect  accent,  a  single  hiatus  in  a  line,  could 
arouse  the  universal  ill-will  of  the  audience  against 
the  player,  and  rob  him  of  his  victory ;  that  the 
great  actor  was  passionately  admired,  and  that  the 
Athenians,  on  account  of  the  actor's  art,  would  neg- 
lect politics  and  the  prosecution  of  war.  One  must 
certainly  not  put  a  low  value  on  the  independent, 
creative  work  of  the  Hellenic  actor  ;  for  we  do  not  at 
all  know  how  creatively  his  soul  worked  in  the  usual 
inflections  of  dramatic  delivery. 

Among  these  three  actors,  all  the  roles  of  the 
three  tragedies  and  the  burlesque  were  divided.  In 
each  play,  the  actor  had,  in  addition  to  his  chief 
role  —  in  which,  according  to  custom,  he  wore  the 


i$o      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

festal  costume  —  subordinate  parts  corresponding  to 
his  character,  or  for  which  he  could  be  spared. 
But  even  in  this  matter  the  poet  was  not  allowed 
full  liberty. 

The  personality  of  the  actor  on  the  stage 
was  not  so  completely  forgotten  in  his  role,  by 
his  audience,  as  is  the  case  with  us.  He  re- 
mained in  the  consciousness  of  the  Athenian,  in 
spite  of  his  various  masks  and  changes  of  costume, 
always  more  the  genial  person  performing,  than  the 
player  who  sought  to  hide  himself  entirely  in  the 
character  of  his  role.  And  so  in  this  respect,  even 
at  the  time  of  Sophocles,  the  representation  on  the 
stage  was  more  like  an  oratorio  or  the  reading 
aloud  of  a  piece,  with  parts  assigned,  than  like  our 
production  on  the  stage.  This  is  an  important 
circumstance.  The  effects  of  the  tragedy  were  not, 
for  this  reason,  injured,  but  somewhat  differently 
colored. 

The  first  player  was,  therefore,  made  somewhat 
significantly  conspicuous  on  the  stage.  To  him 
belongs  the  middle  door  of  the  background  —  "the 
royal"  —for  his  entrances  and  exits;  he  played  the 
most  distinguished  persons,  and  the  strongest  char- 
acters. It  would  have  been  against  his  professional 
dignity  to  represent  on  the  stage,  anyone  who 
allowed  himself  to  be  influenced  or  led  by  any  other 
character  in  the  piece  —  the  gods  excepted.  He 
specially  was  the  player  of  pathetic  parts,  the  singer 
and  hero,  of  course  for  both  masculine  and  feminine 
roles ;  his  role  alone  gave  the  piece  its  name,  in  case 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       151 

he  was  the  controlling  spirit,  in  the  action ;  other- 
wise the  name  of  the  piece  was  taken  from  the  cos- 
tume and  character  of  the  chorus.  Next  him  stood 
the  second  contestant,  as  his  attendant  and  asso- 
ciate ;  over  against  him  stood  the  third,  a  less 
esteemed  actor,  as  character  player,  intriguer,  repre- 
sentative of  the  counter-play. 

This  appointment  was  strictly  adhered  to  by 
Sophocles,  in  the  preparation  and  distribution  of 
parts.  There  were  in  his  plays,  the  chief  hero,  his 
attendant,  and  his  adversary.  But  the  subordinate 
parts,  also,  which  each  of  them  must  undertake,  and 
which  corresponded  to  each  of  the  chief  roles,  were, 
so  far  as  was  at  all  possible,  distributed  according 
to  their  relations  to  the  chief  roles.  The  chief  actor, 
himself,  took  the  part  of  his  representative  and  com- 
panion in  sentiment ;  the  parts  of  friends  and 
retainers,  so  far  as  possible,  the  second  player  took ; 
the  third,  or  adversary,  took  the  parts  of  strangers, 
enemies,  opposing  parties ;  and  in  addition  to  these, 
sometimes  with  the  second,  he  assumed  further 
accessory  roles. 

From  all  this  there  originated  a  peculiar  kind  of 
stage  effects,  which  we  might  call  inartistic,  but 
which  had  for  the  Attic  poet,  and  the  Attic  stage, 
not  a  little  significance.  The  next  duty  of  the  actor 
was  specially  to  indicate  every  one  of  the  roles  he 
assumed  in  a  piece,  by  a  different  mask,  a  different 
tone  of  voice,  a  different  carriage,  and  different  ges- 
tures. And  we  recognize  that  here,  too,  there  was 
much  that  had  conformed  to  custom,  and  become 


152      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

established ;  for  example,  in  the  make-up  and  deliv- 
ery of  a  messenger,  in  the  step,  bearing,  gesture  of 
young  women,  and  of  old  women.  But  a  second 
peculiarity  of  this  established  distribution  of  parts 
was  that  what  was  constant  in  the  actor,  became 
apparent  in  his  individual  parts,  and  was  felt  by  the 
audience  as  something  proper  to  himself,  and  effect- 
ive. The  actor  on  the  Attic  stage  became  an  ideal 
unity  which  held  its  roles  together.  Above  the  illu- 
sion that  different  persons  were  speaking,  the  feel- 
ing remained  to  the  hearer,  that  they  were  one  and 
the  same ;  and  this  circumstance  the  poet  used  for 
peculiar  dramatic  effects.  When  Antigone  was  led 
away  to  death,  the  whole  excited  soul  of  Tiresias 
rang  behind  the  tone  of  voice  in  which  his  threat  was 
made  to  Creon ;  the  same  tone,  the  same  spiritual 
nature  in  all  the  words  of  the  messenger  who 
announced  the  sad  end  of  Antigone  and  of  Haemon, 
again  touched  the  spirit  of  the  audience.  Antigone, 
after  she  had  gone  away  to  death,  came  continually 
back  to  the  stage.  By  this  means  there  arose,  some- 
times during  the  performance,  a  climax  of  tragic 
effects,  where  we,  in  reading,  notice  a  bathos.  When 
in  Electra,  the  same  actor  presents  Orestes  and  Cly- 
temnestra,  son  and  mother,  murderer  and  victim,  the 
same  quality  of  voice  suggests  the  blood  relation  to 
the  audience,  the  same  cold  determination  and  cut- 
ting sharpness  of  tone — it  was  the  role  of  the  third 
actor — suggests  the  inner  kinship  of  the  two  natures  ; 
but  this  sameness  moderated,  perhaps,  the  horror 
which  the  fearful  action  of  the  play  produced. 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.       153 

When,  in  Ajax,  the  hero  of  the  piece  kills  himself 
at  the  climax,  this  must  have  been,  in  the  eyes  of 
the  Greeks,  a  danger  to  the  effect  of  the  play,  not 
because  this  circumstance  in  this  case  affected  the 
unity  of  the  action,  but  probably  put  too  much  of 
the  weight  toward  the  beginning.  But  when,  imme- 
diately afterwards,  from  the  mask  of  Teucros,  the 
same  honest,  true-hearted  nature  still  rang  in  the 
voice,  only  more  youthful,  fresher,  unbroken,  the 
Athenian  not  only  felt  with  satisfaction  the  blood 
relation,  but  the  soul  of  Ajax  took  a  lively  part  in 
the  struggle  continued  about  his  grave.  Particu- 
larly attractive  is  the  way  Sophocles  makes  use  of 
this  means — of  course,  not  he  alone, — to  present 
effectively,  in  the  catastrophe,  the  ruin  of  a  chief  char- 
acter, which  can  only  be  announced.  In  each  of  the 
four  pieces,  which  contain  the  very  conspicuous  role 
of  a  messenger  in  the  catastrophe  (in  the  Trachinian 
Women  it  is  the  nurse)  the  actor  who  has  played  the 
part  of  the  hero  whose  death  is  announced,  became 
himself  the  messenger,  who  related  the  affecting 
circumstances  of  the  death,  sometimes  in  a  won- 
derfully animated  speech  ;  to  the  Athenians,  in  such 
a  case,  the  voice  of  the  departed  came  back  from 
Hades,  and  pierced  their  souls — the  voice  of  CEdi- 
pus  at  Colonos,  of  Jocasta,  of  Antigone,  of  Deia- 
neira.  In  Philoctctcs,  the  return  of  the  same  actor  in 
various  roles  is  most  peculiarly  prized  for  dramatic 
effects, — of  this  there  will  be  a  discussion  later 
on.13 

Such  a  heightening  of  the  effect  through  a  les- 


154      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

sening  of  the  scenic  illusion,  is  foreign  to  our  stage, 
but  not  unheard  of.  A  similar  effect  depends  on 
the  representation  of  women's  parts  by  men,  which 
Goethe  saw  in  Rome. 

This  peculiarity  of  the  Attic  stage  gave  the  poet 
some  liberties  in  the  structure  of  the  action,  which 
we  no  longer  allow.  The  first  hero  could  be  spared 
from  his  chief  role  during  longer  parts  of  the  play 
— as  in  Antigone  and  Ajax.  When,  in  the  Trachi- 
nian  Women,  the  chief  hero,  Hercules,  does  not  enter 
at  all  till  the  last  scene,  yet  he  has  been  effective 
through  his  representatives  from  the  beginning  for- 
ward. The  maid  of  the  prologue,  who  refers  to  the 
absent  Hercules,  Lichas,  his  herald,  who  gives 
accounts  of  him,  speak  with  the  subdued  voice  of 
the  hero. 

And  this  keeping  back  of  the  hero  was  frequently 
necessary  to  the  poet  as  a  prudent  aid  in  concealing 
the  indulgence  which,  before  all  others,  the  first 
actor  must  claim  for  himself.  The  almost  super- 
human effort  of  a  day's  acting  could  be  endured 
only  when  the  same  actor  did  not  have  the  longest 
and  most  exacting  groups  of  roles  in  all  three  trage- 
dies. The  chief  role  among  the  Greeks,  remained 
that  of  the  protagonist,  who  had  the  dignity  and  the 
pathos  requiring  great  effort,  even  if  to  this  part, 
perhaps,  only  a  single  scene  was  given.  But  the  poet 
was  compelled,  in  individual  pieces  of  the  festival 
occasion,  to  give  to  the  second  and  third  actors  what 
we  call  the  chief  parts,  the  most  comprehensive 
parts ;  for  he  must  be  considerate  enough  to  make 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF   THE   DRAMA.        155 

a  somewhat  even  distribution  of  the   lines  of  the 
three  tragedies,  among  his  three  contestants.14 

The  plays  of  Sophocles  which  have  been  pre- 
served, are  distinguished  more* by  the  character  of 
their  action  than  by  their  construction,  from  the 
Germanic  drama.  The  section  of  the  legend,  which 
Sophocles  used  for  the  action  of  his  piece,  had 
peculiar  presuppositions.  His  plays,  as  a  whole, 
represent  the  restoration  of  an  already  disturbed 
order,  revenge,  penance,  adjustment ;  what  is  sup- 
posed to  have  preceded  is  also  the  direst  disturbance, 
confusion,  crime.  The  drama  of  the  Germans,  con- 
sidered in  general,  had  for  its  premises,  a  certain  if 
insufficient  order  and  rest,  against  which  the  person 
of  the  hero  arose,  producing  disturbance,  confusion, 
crime,  until  he  was  subdued  by  counteracting  forces, 
and  a  new  order  was  restored.  The  action  of  Sopho- 
cles began  somewhat  later  than  our  climax.  A 
youth  had  in  ignorance  slain  his  father,  had  married 
his  mother;  this  is  the  premise  —  how  this  already 
accomplished,  unholy  deed,  this  irreparable  wrong 
comes  to  light,  is  the  play.  A  sister  places  her 
happiness  in  the  hope  that  a  young  brother  in  a 
foreign  land  will  take  vengeance  upon  the  mother  for 
the  murder  of  the  father.  How  she  mourns  and 
hopes,  is  terrified  at  the  false  news  of  his  death,  is 
made  happy  by  his  arrival,  and  learns  about  the 
avenging  deed  —  this  is  the  play.  Everything  of 
misfortune,  of  atrocity,  of  the  guilt,  of  the  horrible 
revenge,  which  preceded,  yes,  the  horrible  deed 
itself,  is  represented  through  the  reflections  that  fall 


156      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

upon  the  soul  of  a  woman,  the  sister  of  the  avenger, 
the  daughter  of  the  murderess  and  of  the  murdered 
man.  An  unfortunate  prince,  driven  from  his  home, 
gratefully  communicates  to  the  hospitable  city 
which  receives  him  the  secret  blessing  which, 
according  to  an  oracle,  hangs  over  the  place  of  his 
burial.  A  virgin,  contrary  to  the  command  of  the 
prince,  buries  her  brother,  who  lies  slain  on  the 
field ;  she  is  therefore  sentenced  to  death,  and 
involves  the  son  and  the  wife  of  the  inexorable 
judge  with  herself  in  destruction.  To  a  wandering 
hero,  there  is  sent  into  the  foreign  land,  by  his  wife 
who  has  heard  of  his  infidelity,  and  wishes  to  regain 
his  love,  a  magic  garment  which  consumes  his 
body ;  on  account  of  her  grief  at  this,  the  wife  kills 
herself  and  has  her  body  burned.15  A  hero,  who 
through  a  mad  delusion  has  slain  a  captured  herd 
instead  of  the  abhorred  princes  of  his  people,  kills 
himself  for  shame  ;  but  his  associates  achieve  for  him 
an  honorable  burial.  A  hero,  who  on  account  of  an 
obstinate  disease  of  his  army, is  left  exposed  on  an  un- 
inhabited island,  is  brought  back,  because  an  oracle, 
through  those  who  hated  him  and  banished  him, 
has  demanded  his  return  as  a  means  of  restoring 
health  to  the  army.  What  precedes  the  play  is 
always  a  great  part  of  what  we  must  include  in  the 
action.16 

But  if  from  the  seven  plays  of  Sophocles  which 
have  been  preserved,  it  is  allowable  to  pass  a 
guarded  judgment  on  a  hundred  lost  plays,  this 
treatment  of  myths  does  not  seem  universal 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       157 

among  the  Greeks,  but  seems  to  distinguish  Sopho- 
cles. We  recognize  distinctly  that  /Eschylus  in 
his  trilogies  considered  longer  portions  of  the 
legends  —  the  wrong,  the  complication,  the  adjust- 
ment. Euripides  sometimes  exceeded  the  definite 
end  piece  of  the  legend,  or  with  more  convenience 
than  art,  announced  what  had  preceded,  in  an  epic 
prologue.  In  both  of  his  best  pieces,  Hyppolitiis  and 
Medea,  the  action  is  built  on  premises,  which  would 
also  have  been  possible  in  newer  pieces. 

This  order  of  the  action  in  Sophocles  allowed 
not  only  the  greatest  excitement  of  passionate  feel- 
ing, but  also  a  firm  connection  of  characters ;  but  it 
excluded  numerous  inner  changes,  which  are  indis- 
pensable to  our  plays.  How  these  monstrous  prem- 
ises affected  the  heroes,  he  could  represent  with  a 
mastery  now  unattainable;  but  there  were  given 
most  unusual  circumstances,  through  which  the 
heroes  were  influenced.  The  secret  and  ecstatic 
struggles  of  the  inner  man,  which  impel  from  a 
comparative  quiet,  to  passion  and  deed,  despair  and 
the  stings  of  conscience,  and  again  the  violent 
changes  which  are  produced  in  the  sentiment  and 
character  of  the  hero  himself  through  an  awful 
deed,  the  stage  of  Sophocles  did  not  allow  to  be 
represented.  How  any  one  gradually  learned  some- 
thing fearful  little  by  little,  how  any  one  conducted 
himself  after  reaching  a  momentous  conclusion,  this 
invited  picturing;  but  how  he  struggled  with  the 
conclusion,  how  the  terrible  calamity  that  pressed 
upon  him,  was  prepared  by  his  own  doings, —  this,  it 


158      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

appears,  was  not  dramatic  for  the  stage  of  Sopho- 
cles. Euripides  is  more  flexible  in  this,  and  more 
similar  to  us ;  but  in  the  eyes  of  his  contemporaries, 
this  was  no  unconditional  excellence.  One  of  the 
most  finished  characters  of  our  drama  is  Macbeth ; 
yet  it  may  be  well  said,  to  the  Athenians  before  the 
stage  he  would  have  been  thoroughly  intolerable, 
weak,  unheroic ;  what  appears  to  us  most  human  in 
him,  and  what  we  admire  as  the  greatest  art  of  the 
poet,  his  powerful  conflict  with  himself  over  the 
awful  deed,  his  despair,  his  remorse, —  this  would 
not  have  been  allowed  to  the  tragic  hero  of  the 
Greeks.  The  Greeks  were  very  sensitive  to  vacilla- 
tions of  the  will ;  the  greatness  of  their  heroes 
consisted,  before  all,  in  firmness.  The  first  actor 
would  scarcely  have  represented  a  character  who 
would  allow  himself  in  any  matter  of  consequence, 
to  be  influenced  by  another  character  in  the  piece. 
Every  mental  disturbance  of  the  leading  persons, 
even  in  subordinate  matters,  must  be  carefully 
accounted  for  and  excused.  CEdipus  hesitates 
about  seeing  his  son ;  Theseus  makes  all  his  repre- 
sentations of  obstinacy  in  vain ;  Antigone  must  first 
explain  to  the  audience ;  to  listen  is  not  to  yield. 

If  Philoctetes  had  yielded  to  the  reasonable  argu- 
ing of  the  second  player,  he  would  have  fallen 
greatly  in  the  regard  of  the  audience ;  he  would 
have  been  no  longer  the  strong  hero.  To  be  sure, 
Neoptolemus  changes  his  relation  to  Philoctetes, 
and  the  audience  was  extremely  heated  over  it ; 
that  he  did  so,  however,  was  only  a  return  to  his 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        159 

own  proper  character,  and  he  was  only  second 
player.  We  are  inclined  to  consider  Creon  in 
Antigone  as  a  grateful  part ;  to  the  Greeks  he  was 
only  a  role  of  third  rank ;  to  this  character,  the 
justification  of  pathos  was  entirely  wanting.  Just 
the  trait  that  makes  him  appeal  to  us,  his  being 
convulsed  and  entirely  unstrung  by  Tiresias,  —  that 
artifice  of  the  poet  to  bring  a  new  suspense  into  the 
action  —  this  lessened  to  the  Greeks  the  interest  in 
the  character.  And  that  the  same  trait  in  the  family 
and  in  the  play  comes  out  once  more,  that  Haemon, 
too,  will  kill  his  father  only  after  the  messenger's 
announcement,  but  then  kills  himself — for  us  a 
very  characteristic  and  human  trait — Attic  criticism 
seems  to  have  established  as  a  reproach  against  the 
poet,  who  brought  forward  such  undignified  insta- 
bility twice  in  one  tragedy.  If  ever  the  conversion 
of  one  character  to  the  point  of  view  of  another  is 
accomplished,  it  does  not  occur — except  in  the 
catastrophe  of  Ajax — during  the  scene  in  which  the 
parties  fight  each  other  with  long  or  short  series  of 
lines ;  but  the  change  is  laid  behind  the  scenes  ;  the 
convert  comes  entirely  altered,  into  his  new  situation. 
The  struggle  of  the  Greek  hero  was  egotistic ; 
his  purpose  ended  with  his  life.  The  position  of  the 
Germanic  hero,  with  reference  to  his  destiny,  is 
therefore,  very  different,  because  to  him  the  purpose 
of  his  existence,  the  moral  import,  his  ideal  con- 
sciousness, reaches  far  out  beyond  his  individual 
life,  love,  honor,  patriotism.  The  spectators  bring 
with  them  to  the  Germanic  play,  the  notion  that 


160      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  heroes  of  the  stage  are  not  there  entirely  for 
their  own  sake,  not  even  specially  for  their  own 
sake,  but  that  just  they,  with  their  power  of  free  self- 
direction,  must  serve  higher  purposes,  let  the  higher 
which  stands  above  them  be  conceived  as  Provi- 
dence, as  the  laws  of  nature,  as  the  body  politic,  as 
the  state.  The  annihilation  of  their  life  is  not  ruin, 
in  the  same  sense  as  in  the  ancient  tragedy.  In 
CEdipus  at  Colonos,  the  greatness  of  the  import  took 
a  strong  hold  upon  the  Athenians ;  they  felt  here 
forcibly  the  humanity  of  a  life  which,  beyond  mere 
existence,  and  indeed  by  its  death,  rendered  a  high 
service  to  the  universal  existence.  From  this,  too, 
arises  the  great  closing  effect  of  The  Furies.  Here 
the  sufferings  and  fate  of  the  individual  are  used  as 
blessings  to  the  universal.  That  the  greatest  unfor- 
tunates of  the  legend — CEdipus  and  Orestes — pay 
so  terrible  a  penance  for  their  crime,  appeared  to  the 
Greeks  as  a  new  and  sublime  dignifying  of  man 
upon  the  stage,  not  foreign  to  their  life,  but  to  their 
art.  The  undramatic  climax  of  pity,  produced  by 
practical  closing  results,  however  useful  to  home 
and  country,  leaves  us  moderns  unmoved.  But  it 
is  always  instructive  to  note  that  the  two  greatest 
dramatists  of  the  Hellenes  once  raised  their  heroes 
to  the  same  theory  of  life  in  which  we  are  accus- 
tomed to  breathe  and  to  see  the  heroes  of  our  stage. 
How  Sophocles  fashioned  his  characters  and  his 
situations  under  such  constraint  is  remarkable. 
His  feeling  for  contrasts  worked  with  the  force  of  a 
power  of  nature,  to  which  he  himself  could  not 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA.        161 

afford  resistance.  Notice  the  malicious  hardness  of 
Athene,  in  Ajax.  It  is  called  out  by  contrast  with 
the  humanity  of  Odysseus,  and  shows  the  needed 
contrast  in  color  with  an  unscrupulous  sharpness, 
whereby  naturally  the  goddess  comes  short  of  her- 
self, because  she  will  sagaciously  illuminate  with 
her  divinity  the  shadowing  of  her  nature,  which  is 
like  Menelaus's.  The  same  piece  gives  in  every 
scene  a  good  insight  into  the  manner  of  his  crea- 
tion, which  is  so  spontaneous,  and  withal  so  powerful 
in  effects,  so  carelessly  sovereign,  that  we  easily 
understand  how  the  Greeks  found  in  it  something  di- 
vine. Everywhere  here,  one  mood  summons  another, 
one  character  another,  exact,  pure,  certain ;  each 
color,  each  melody,  forces  forward  another  corre- 
sponding to  it.  The  climax  of  the  piece  is  the 
frame  of  mind  of  Ajax  after  the  awakening.  How 
nobly  and  humanly  the  poet  feels  the  nature  of  the 
man  under  the  adventurous  presuppositions  of  the 
piece !  The  warm-hearted,  honest,  hot-headed  hero, 
the  ennobled  Berlichingen  of  the  Greek  army,  had 
been  several  times  churlish  toward  the  gods ;  then 
misfortune  came  upon  him.  The  convulsing  despair 
of  a  magnificent  nature,  which  is  broken  by  disgrace 
and  shame,  the  touching  concealment  of  his  deter- 
mination to  die,  and  the  restrained  pathos  of  a 
warrior,  who  by  voluntary  choice  performs  his  last 
act, —  these  were  the  three  movements  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  first  hero  which  gave  the  poet  the  three 
great  scenes,  and  the  requirements  for  the  entire 
piece.  First,  as  contrast  with  the  prologue,  the  pic- 


162      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

ture  of  Ajax  himself.  Here  he  is  still  a  monster, 
stupid  as  if  half  asleep.  He  is  the  complete  oppo- 
site of  the  awakened  Ajax,  immediately  the  embodi- 
ment of  shrewdness.  The  situation  was  as  ridiculous 
on  the  stage  as  it  was  dismal ;  the  poet  guarded 
himself,  indeed,  from  wishing  to  make  anything 
different  out  of  it.  Both  counter-players  must 
accommodate  themselves  to  the  depressing  con- 
straint. Odysseus  receives  a  slight  tinge  of  this 
ridiculous  element,  and  Athene  receives  the  cold, 
scornful  hardness.  It  is  exactly  the  right  color, 
which  was  needed  by  what  was  being  represented,  a 
contrast  developed  with  unscrupulous  severity, 
created,  not  by  cold  calculation,  not  through  uncon- 
scious feeling,  but  as  a  great  poet  creates,  with  a 
certain  natural  necessity,  yet  with  perfect,  free 
consciousness. 

In  the  same  dependence  upon  the  chief  heroes, 
the  collective  roles  are  fashioned,  according  to  the 
conditions  under  which  the  Greek  composed  for 
each  of  the  three  actors ;  associate  player,  accessory 
player,  counter-player.  In  Ajax  for  instance,  there 
was  the  "other  self"  of  Ajax,  the  true,  dutiful 
brother  Teucros ;  then,  there  were  the  second  roles, 
his  wife,  the  booty  of  his  spear,  Tecmessa,  loving, 
anxious,  well  knowing,  however,  how  to  oppose  the 
hero  ;  and  there  was  his  friendly  rival,  Odysseus ; 
finally,  the  enemies,  again  three  degrees  of  hate; 
the  goddess,  the  hostile  partisan,  and  his  more  pru- 
dent brother,  whose  hatred  was  under  control  out  of 
regard  for  policy.  When,  in  the  last  scene,  the 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        163 

counter-player  and  the  hostile  friend  of  the  hero 
were  reconciled  at  the  grave,  from  the  compact 
which  they  made,  the  Athenian  would  recognize 
very  distinctly  the  opposite  of  the  opening  scene, 
where  the  same  voices  had  taken  sides  against  the 
madman. 

Within  the  individual  characters  of  Sophocles, 
also,  the  unusual  purity  and  power  of  his  feeling  for 
harmony,  and  the  same  creation  in  contrasts,  are 
admirable.  He  perceived  here  surely  and  with  no 
mistake,  what  could  be  effective  in  them,  and  what 
Was  not  allowable.  The  heroes  of  the  epic  and  of 
the  legend,  resist  violently,  being  changed  into 
dramatic  characters :  they  brook  only  a  certain 
measure  of  inner  life  and  human  freedom ;  whoever 
will  endow  them  with  more,  from  him  they  snatch 
away  and  tear  into  shreds  the  loose  web  of  their 
myths  —  barbarous  on  the  stage.  The  wise  poet  of 
the  Greeks  recognizes  very  well  the  inward  hard- 
ness and  untamableness  of  the  forms  which  he  must 
transform  into  characters.  Therefore,  he  takes  as 
little  as  possible  from  the  legend  itself  into  the 
drama.  He  finds,  however,  a  very  simple  and  com- 
prehensible outline  of  its  essential  characteristic  as 
his  action  needs  it,  and  he  always  makes  the  best 
of  this  one  peculiarity  of  character,  with  peculiar 
strictness  and  logical  congruity.  This  determining 
trait  is  always  one  impelling  toward  a  deed :  pride, 
hate,  connubial  sense  of  duty,  official  zeal.  And  the 
poet  conducts  his  characters  in  no  way  like  a  mild 
commander ;  he  exacts  from  them  according  to 


164      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

their  disposition,  what  is  boldest,  and  most  extreme ; 
he  is  so  insatiably  hard  and  pitiless,  that  to  us  weaker 
beings,  a  feeling  of  real  horror  comes,  on  account 
of  the  fearful  one-sidedness  into  which  he  has  them 
plunge  ;  and  that  even  the  Athenians  compared  such 
effects  to  the  loosing  of  bloodhounds.  The  defiant 
sisterly  love  of  Antigone,  the  mortally  wounded 
pride  of  Ajax,  the  exasperation  of  the  tormented 
Philoctetes,  the  hatred  of  Electra,  are  forced  out  in 
austere  and  progressive  intensity,  and  placed  in  the 
deadly  conflict. 

But  over  against  this  groundwork  of  the  charac- 
ters, he  perceives  again  with  marvellous  beauty 
and  certainty  just  the  corresponding  gentle  and 
friendly  quality  which  is  possible  to  his  characters, 
with  their  peculiar  harshness.  Again,  this  contrast 
appears  in  his  heroes,  with  the  power  of  the  required 
complementary  color ;  and  this  second  and  opposite 
quality  of  his  persons  —  almost  always  the  gentle, 
cordial,  touching  side  of  their  nature,  love  opposed 
to  hate,  fidelity  to  friends  opposed  to  treachery, 
honest  candor  against  sheer  irascibility  —  is  almost 
always  adorned  with  the  most  beautiful  poetry,  the 
most  delicate  brilliancy  of  color.  Ajax,  who  would 
have  slain  his  foes  in  mad  hatred,  displays  an 
unusual  strength  of  family  affection,  true-hearted, 
deep,  intense  love  toward  his  companions,  toward 
the  distant  brother,  toward  the  child,  toward  his  wife; 
Electra,  who  almost  lives  upon  her  hatred  of  her 
mother,  clings  with  the  gentlest  expressions  of 
tenderness  about  the  neck  of  her  longed-for  brother. 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.        165 

The  tortured  Philoctetes,  crying  out  in  pain  and 
anguish,  demanding  the  sword  that  he  may  hew 
asunder  his  own  joints,  looks  up,  helpless,  grateful, 
and  resigned,  to  the  benevolent  youth  who  can  behold 
the  odious  suffering  and  give  no  expression  to  his 
horror.  Only  the  chief  characters  exhibit  this  un- 
folding of  their  powerfully  conceived  unity,  in  two 
opposite  directions ;  the  accessory  persons,  as  a  rule 
show  only  the  required  supplementary  colors  ;  Creon 
thrice,  Odysseus  twice,  both  in  each  of  their  pieces 
differently  shaded  off,  Ismene,  Theseus,  Orestes. 

Such  a  uniting  of  two  contrast  colors  in  one 
chief  character  was  possible  to  the  Greek  only 
because  he  was  a  great  poet  and  student  of  human 
nature ;  that  is,  because  his  creative  soul  perceived 
distinctly  the  deepest  roots  of  a  human  existence, 
from  which  these  two  opposite  leaves  of  his  charac- 
ters grew.  And  this  exact  observation  of  the  germ 
of  every  human  life  is  the  highest  prerogative  of 
the  poet,  which  causes  the  simple  bringing  out  of 
two  opposite  colors  in  character  to  produce  the 
beautiful  appearance  of  wealth,  of  fulness,  of  sym- 
metry. It  is  an  enchanting  illusion,  in  which  he 
knows  how  to  place  his  hearers  ;  it  gives  his  pictures 
exactly  the  kind  of  life  which  has  been  possible  in 
his  material  on  the  stage.  With  us,  the  characters 
of  the  great  poets  show  much  more  artistic  fashion- 
ing than  those  ancient  ones,  which  grew  up  so 
simply,  leaf  opposite  to  leaf,  from  the  root ;  Hamlet, 
Faust,  Romeo,  Wallenstein,  cannot  be  traced  back 
to  so  simple  an  original  form.  And  they  are,  of 


166      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

course,  the  evidence  of  a  higher  degree  of  develop- 
ment of  humanity.  But  on  this  account,  the  figures 
of  Sophocles  are  not  at  all  less  admirable  and 
enchanting.  For  he  knows  how  to  design  them 
with  simplicity,  but  with  a  nobility  of  sentiment,  and 
fashion  them  in  a  beauty  and  grandeur  of  outline 
that  excited  astonishment  even  in  ancient  times. 
Nowhere  are  loftiness  and  power  wanting  in  either 
chief  characters  or  accessory  characters ;  every- 
where is  seen  from  their  bearing,  the  insight  and 
unrestrained  master-power  of  a  great  poet  nature. 

yEschylus  embodied  in  the  characters  of  the 
stage  a  single  characteristic  feature,  which  made 
their  individuality  intelligible ;  in  Prometheus,  Cly- 
temnestra,  Agamemnon,  Sophocles  intensified  his 
great  roles,  while  he  attributed  to  them  two  appar- 
ently contradictory  qualities,  which  were  in  reality 
requisite  and  supplementary ;  when  Euripides  went 
further,  and  created  pictures  imitating  reality,  which 
were  like  living  beings,  the  threads  of  the  old 
material  flew  asunder,  and  curled  up  like  the  dyed 
cloth  of  Deianeira  in  the  sunlight. 

This  same  joyousness,  and  the  sure  perception 
of  contrasts,  allowed  the  poet,  Sophocles,  also  to 
overcome  the  difficulty  which  his  choice  of  fables 
prepared  for  him.  The  numerous  and  monstrous 
premises  of  his  plot  seemed  peculiarly  unfavora- 
ble to  a  powerful  action  proceeding  from  the  hero 
himself.  In  the  last  hours  of  its  calamity,  it 
appears,  the  heroes  are  almost  always  suffering,  not 
freely  acting.  But  the  greater  the  pressure  the  poet 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        167 

lays  upon  them  from  without,  so  much  higher  the 
power  becomes  with  which  they  battle  against  it. 
Whatever  already  in  the  first  ascending  half  of  the 
piece,  fate  or  a  strange  power  works  against  the 
hero,  he  does  not  appear  as  receiving  it,  but  as 
thrusting  his  whole  being  emphatically  against  it. 
He  is,  in  truth,  impelled ;  but  he  appears  in  a  dis- 
tinctive manner  to  be  the  impelling  force ;  thus 
CEdipus,  Electra,  even  Philoctetes,  taken  together, 
are  efficient  natures,  which  rage,  impel,  advance.  If 
any  one  ever  stood  in  a  position  of  defence  dan- 
gerous to  a  play,  it  was  poor  King  CEdipus.  Let  it 
be  observed  how  Sophocles  represents  him,  as  far  as 
the  climax,  fighting  in  increasing  excitement,  against 
opposition ;  the  more  dismal  his  cause  becomes 
to  himself,  so  much  the  more  violently  does  he  beat 
against  his  environment. 

These  are  some  of  the  conditions  under  which 
the  poet  created  his  action.  If  the  plays  of  Sopho- 
cles together  with  the  chorus,  claimed  about  the 
same  time  as  our  plays,  on  the  average,  require,  yet 
the  action  is  much  shorter  than  ours.  For  aside 
from  the  chorus,  and  from  the  lyric  and  epic  parts 
inserted,  the  whole  design  of  the  scenes  is  greater 
and,  on  the  whole,  broader.  The  action,  according 
to  our  way  of  presenting,  would  scarcely  occupy 
half  an  evening.  The  transitions  from  scene  to 
scene  are  short,  but  accurately  motived ;  entrance 
and  exit  of  new  roles  are  explained,  little  connect- 
ing parts  between  elaborate  scenes  are  infrequent. 
The  number  of  divisions  was  not  uniform ;  only  in 


168      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  later  time  of  the  ancient  tragedy  was  the  divi- 
sion into  five  acts  established.  The  different  parts 
of  the  action  were  separated  by  choral  songs.  Every 
one  of  such  parts, — as  a  rule,  corresponding  to  our 
finished  scene — was  distinguished  from  the  one  pre- 
ceding it,  by  its  meaning,  but  not  so  sharply  as  our 
acts.  It  appears,  almost,  that  the  single  pieces  of 
the  day — not  the  parts  of  a  piece — were  separated 
by  a  curtain  drawn  across  the  stage.  Indeed,  the 
tableau  in  the  beginning  of  CEdipus  may  be  explained 
otherwise ;  but  since  the  decoration  of  Sophocles 
already  plays  a  part  in  the  piece — and  he  was  as 
fond  of  referring  to  this  as  yEschylus  was  to  his 
chariot  and  flying  machine — its  fastenings  must  have 
been  taken  from  the  view  of  the  spectator  before  the 
beginning  of  a  new  piece. 

Another  characteristic  of  Sophocles,  so  far  as  it 
is  recognizable  to  us,  lies  in  the  symmetrical  propor- 
tions of  his  piece. 

The  introduction  and  the  conclusion  of  the  old 
drama  were  set  off  from  the  rest  of  the  structure, 
much  more  markedly  than  at  present.  The  intro- 
duction was  called  the  prologue ;  embraced  one 
appearance  or  more  of  the  solo-players,  before  the 
first  entrance  of  the  chorus;  contained  all  the  essen- 
tials of  the  exposition;  and  was  separated  by  a  choral 
song  from  the  rising  action.  The  conclusion,  exodus, 
likewise  separated  from  the  falling  action  by  a  choral 
song,  was  composed  of  scene-groups,  carefully 
worked  out,  and  included  the  part  of  the  action, 
which  we  moderns  call  the  catastrophe.  In  Sopho- 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        169 

cles,  the  prologue  is,  in  all  the  plays  preserved,  an 
artfully  constructed  dialogue  scene,  with  a  not  insig- 
nificant movement,  in  which  two,  sometimes  all 
three,  actors  appear  and  show  their  relation  to  each 
other.  It  contains,  first,  the  general  premises  of  the 
piece,  and  second,  what  appears  to  be  peculiar  to 
Sophocles,  a  specially-  impressive  introduction  of  the 
exciting  force  which  shall  impel  the  action,  after  the 
choral  song. 

The  first  choral  song  follows  the  prologue ;  after 
this  comes  the  action  with  the  entrance  of  the  first 
excitement.  From  here  the  action  rises  in  two  or 
more  stages  to  the  climax.  There  are  in  Sophocles, 
sometimes,  very  fine  motives,  insignificant  in  them- 
selves, which  occasion  this  ascent.  The  summit  of  the 
action  arises  mightily;  for  bringing  out  this  moment, 
the  poet  uses  all  the  splendor  of  color,  and  all  the 
sublimcst  poetic  fervor.  And  when  the  action  allows 
of  a  broad  turn,  the  scene  of  this  turn,  revolution,  or 
recognition,  follows  not  suddenly  and  unexpectedly, 
but  with  fine  transition,  and  always  in  artistic  finish. 
From  here,  the  action  plunges  swiftly  to  the  end, 
only  occasionally,  before  the  exodus,  a  slight  pause, 
or  level,  is  arranged.  The  catastrophe  itself  is  com- 
posed like  a  peculiar  action ;  it  consists  not  of  a 
single  scene,  but  of  a  group  of  scenes, — the  brilliant 
messenger  part,  the  dramatic  action,  and  sometimes 
lyric  pathos  scenes,  lie  in  it,  connected  by  slight 
transition  scenes.  The  catastrophe  has  not  the  same 
power,  in  all  the  plays,  nor  is  it  treated  with  effects 
of  progressive  intensity.  The  relation  of  the  piece 


170      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

to  the  others  of  the  same  day  may,  also,  have  con- 
trolled the  work  of  the  conclusion. 

The  play  of  Antigone  contains — besides  prologue 
and  catastrophe — five  parts,  of  which  the  first  three 
form  the  rising  movement ;  the  fourth,  the  climax ; 
the  fifth,  the  return.  Each  of  these  parts,  separated 
from  the  others  by  a  choral  song,  embraces  a  scene 
of  two  divisions.  The  idea  of  the  piece  is  as  fol- 
lows :  A  maiden,  who  contrary  to  the  command  of 
the  king,  buries  her  brother,  slain  in  a  battle  against 
his  native  city,  is  sentenced  to  death  by  the  king. 
The  king,  on  this  account,  loses  his  son  and  his  con- 
sort, by  self-inflicted  death.  In  a  dialogue  scene, 
which  affords  a  contrast  between  the  heroine  and 
her  friendly  helpers,  the  prologue  explains  the  basis 
of  the  action,  and  makes  an  exposition  of  the  excit- 
ing force,  —  the  resolution  of  Antigone  to  bury  her 
brother.  The  first  step  of  the  ascent  is,  after  the 
introduction  of  Creon,  the  message  that  Polynices 
is  secretly  buried,  the  wrath  of  Creon,  and  his  com- 
mand to  find  the  perpetrator  of  the  deed.  The 
second  step  is  the  introduction  of  Antigone,  who  has 
been  seized,  the  expression  of  her  resistance  to 
Creon,  and  the  intrusion  of  Ismene,  who  declares 
that  she  is  an  accomplice  of  Antigone  and  will  die 
with  her.  The  third  step  is  the  entreaty  of  Haemon, 
and  when  Creon  remains  inexorable,  the  despair  of 
the  lover.  The  messenger  scene  has  been  followed 
so  far  by  dialogue  scenes,  continually  increasing  in 
excitement.  The  pathos  scene  of  Antigone,  song 
and  recitation,  forms  the  climax.  This  is  followed 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        171 

by  Croon's  command  to  lead  her  away  to  death. 
From  this  point  the  action  falls  rapidly.  The  pro- 
phet, Tircsias,  announces  calamity  awaiting  Creon, 
and  punishes  his  obstinacy.  Creon  is  softened,  and 
gives  orders  that  Antigone  be  released  from  the  burial 
vault  where  she  is  imprisoned.  And  now  begins  the 
catastrophe,  in  a  great  scene-group ;  announcement 
by  messenger  of  Antigone's  death,  and  Hcnemon's, 
the  despairing  departure  of  Eurydice,  the  lament  of 
Creon,  another  message,  announcing  the  death  of 
Eurydice,  and  the  concluding  lament  of  Creon.  The 
continuance  of  Antigone  herself  is  the  seer,  Tiresias, 
and  the  messenger  of  the  catastrophe;  the  friendly 
accessory  players  are  Ismene  and  Hremon  ;  the  coun- 
ter-player, with  less  power  and  with  no  pathos,  is 
Creon.  Eurydice  is  only  an  assisting  role. 

The  most  artistic  play  of  Sophocles  is  King  (Edi- 
pns.  It  possesses  all  the  fine  inventions  of  the  Attic 
drama,  besides  variations  in  songs  and  chorus,  revo- 
lution scene,  recognition  scene,  pathos  scene,  finished 
announcement  of  the  messenger  at  the  close.  The 
action  is  governed  by  the  counter-play,  has  a  short 
ascent,  comparatively  weak  climax,  and  a  long 
descent.  The  prologue  brings  out  all  three  actors, 
and  announces,  besides  the  presupposed  conditions, 
Thebes  under  CEdipus  during  a  plague,  the  exciting 
force,  an  oracular  utterance, — that  Laius's  murder 
shall  be  avenged,  and  with  this  the  city  shall  be 
delivered  from  the  pestilence.  From  here  the  action 
rises  by  two  steps.  First,  Tircsias,  called  by  CEdi- 
pus, hesitates  to  interpret  the  oracle ;  rendered  sus- 


172      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

picious  by  the  violent  CEdipus,  he  hints  in  ambigu- 
ous, enigmatical  terms,  at  the  mysterious  murderer, 
and  departs  in  wrath.  Second  step,  strife  of  CEdi- 
pus with  Creon,  separated  by  Jocasta.  After  this, 
climax;  interview  of  CEdipus  and  Jocasta.  Jocasta's 
account  of  the  death  of  Laius,  and  CEdipus's  words, 
"O  woman,  how,  at  your  words,  a  sudden  terror 
seizes  me  !"  are  the  highest  point  of  the  action.  Up 
to  this  passage,  CEdipus  has  summoned  up  a  violent 
resistance  to  the  crowding  conjectures  ;  although  he 
has  been  gradually  growing  anxious,  now  the  feeling 
of  an  infinite  danger  falls  upon  his  soul.  His  role 
is  the  conflict  between  defiant  self-consciousness  and 
unfathomable  self-contempt ;  in  this  place  the  first 
ends,  the  second  begins.  From  here  the  action  goes 
again  in  two  steps  downward,  with  magnificent 
execution  ;  the  suspense  is  increased  by  the  counter- 
play  of  Jocasta ;  for  what  gives  her  the  fearful  cer- 
tainty once  more  deceives  CEdipus ;  the  effects  of 
the  recognitions  are  here  masterfully  treated.  The 
catastrophe  has  three  divisions,  messenger  scene, 
pathos  scene,  closing  with  a  soft  and  reconciling 
note. 

On  the  other  hand,  Electro,  has  a  very  simple 
construction.  It  consists — besides  prologue  and 
catastrophe  —  of  two  stages  of  the  ascent  and  two 
of  the  fall ;  of  these,  the  two  standing  nearest  the 
climax  are  united  with  this  into  a  great  scene-group, 
which  makes  specially  conspicuous  the  middle  point 
of  the  play.  The  play  contains  not  only  the  strongest 
dramatic  effect  which  we  have  received  from  Soph- 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.       173 

ocles,  but  it  is  also,  for  other  reasons,  very  instruc- 
tive, because  in  comparing  it  with  the  Libation  Ponrcrs 
of  ^schylus  and  the  Electro,  of  Euripides,  which  treat 
the  same  material,  we  recognize  distinctly  how  the 
poets  prepared  for  themselves,  one  after  another, 
the  celebrated  legend.  In  Sophocles,  Orestes,  the 
central  point  of  two  pieces  in  ./Eschylus's  trilogy, 
is  treated  entirely  as  an  accessory  figure ;  he  per- 
forms the  monstrous  deed  of  vengeance  by  com- 
mand of  and  as  the  tool  of  Apollo,  deliberate, 
composed,  with  no  trace  of  doubt  or  vacillation, 
like  a  warrior  who  has  set  out  upon  a  dangerous 
undertaking ;  and  only  the  catastrophe  represents 
this  chief  part  of  the  old  subject  dramatically. 
What  the  piece  presents  is  the  mental  perturbations 
of  an  extremely  energetic  and  magnificent  female 
character,  but  shaped  for  the  requirements  of  the 
stage  in  a  most  striking  manner,  by  changes  in  feel- 
ing, through  will  and  deed.  In  the  prologue,  Orestes 
and  his  warden  give  the  introduction  and  the  expo- 
sition of  the  exciting  force  (arrival  of  the  avengers), 
which  works  at  first  in  the  action  as  a  dream  and 
presentiment  of  Clytemnestra.  The  first  stage  of  the 
rising  action  follows  this  :  Elcctra  receives  from 
Chrysothcmis  the  news  that  she,  the  ever-complain- 
ing one,  will  be  put  into  prison ;  she  persuades 
Chrysothemis  not  to  pour  upon  the  grave  of  the 
murdered  father  the  expiating  libation  which  the 
mother  has  sent.  Second  stage  :  Conflict  of  Elcctra 
and  Clytemnestra,  then  climax ;  the  warden  brings 
the  false  report  of  the  death  of  Orestes ;  different 


174      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

effect  of  this  news  on  the  two  women  ;  pathos  scene 
of  Electra  added  to  this,  the  first  step  of  the 
return.  Chrysothemis  returns  joyfully  from  her 
father's  grave,  announces  that  she  found  a  strange 
lock  of  hair,  as  a  pious  benediction  there  ;  a  friend 
must  be  near.  Electra  no  longer  believes  the  good 
news,  challenges  the  sister  to  unite  with  herself  and 
kill  yEgisthos,  rages  against  the  resisting  Chryso- 
themis, and  resolves  to  perform  the  deed  alone. 
Second  stage :  Orestes  as  a  stranger,  with  the  urn 
containing  Orestes's  ashes ;  mourning  of  Electra, 
and  recognition  scene  of  enrapturing  beauty.  The 
exodus  contains  the  representation  of  the  avenging 
deed,  first  in  the  fearful  mental  convulsions  of  Elec- 
tra, then  the  entrance  of  ^gisthos  and  his  death. 
What  is  contained  in  CEdipus  at  Colonos  appears, 
if  one  considers  the  idea  of  the  piece,  extremely 
unfavorable  for  dramatic  treatment.  That  an  old 
man,  wandering  about  the  country,  should  bestow 
the  blessing  which,  according  to  an  oracle,  was  to 
hang  over  his  grave,  not  upon  his  ungrateful  native 
city,  but  upon  hospitable  strangers — -such  a  subject 
seems  to  the  casual  patriotic  feeling  of  an  audience, 
rather  offensive.  And  yet  Sophocles  has  under- 
stood how  to  charge  even  this  with  suspense,  pro- 
gressive elevation,  passionate  strife  between  hatred 
and  love.  But  the  piece  has  a  peculiarity  of  con- 
struction. The  prologue  is  expanded  into  a  greater 
whole,  which  in  its  extreme  compass  corresponds 
to  the  catastrophe ;  it  consists  of  two  parts,  each 
composed  of  three  little  scenes,  connected  by  a 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        175 

pathetic  moment  of  alternating  song  between  the 
solo  players  and  the  chorus,  which  enters  at  this 
unusually  early  point.  The  first  part  of  the  pro- 
logue contains  the  exposition,  the  second  scene  the 
exciting  force  —  the  news  which  Ismene  brings  the 
venerable  CEdipus,  that  he  is  pursued  by  those  of 
his  riative  city,  Thebes.  From  here  the  action  rises 
through  a  single  stage — Theseus,  lord  of  the  land, 
appears,  offers  his  protection  —  to  the  climax,  a 
great  conflict  scene  with  powerful  movement. 
Creon  enters,  drags  away  the  daughters  by  force, 
threatening  CEdipus  himself  with  violence,  in  order 
that  he  shall  return  home ;  but  Theseus  maintains 
his  protecting  power  and  sends  Creon  away.  Here- 
upon follows  the  return  action,  in  two  stages :  The 
daughters,  rescued  by  Theseus,  are  brought  back  to 
the  old  man ;  Polynices,  for  his  own  selfish  ends, 
entreats  reconciliation  with  his  father,  and  his 
father's  return.  CEdipus  dismisses  him  unrecon- 
ciled ;  Antigone  expresses  in  touching  words  the 
fidelity  of  a  sister.  Then  follows  the  catastrophe ; 
the  mysterious  snatching  away  of  CEdipus,  a  short 
oration  scene  and  chorus,  then  grand  messenger 
scene  and  concluding  song.  By  the  expansion  of 
the  prologue  and  the  catastrophe,  this  piece  becomes 
about  three  hundred  lines  longer  than  the  other 
plays  of  this  writer.  The  freer  treatment  of  the 
permanent  scene-forms,  like  the  contents  of  the 
play,  lets  us  perceive  what  we  also  know  from  old 
accounts,  that  this  tragedy  was  one  of  the  last 
works  of  the  venerable  poet. 


176      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Perhaps  the  earliest  of  the  plays  of  Sophocles 
which  have  come  down  to  us  is  The  Trachinian 
Women.  Here,  too,  is  something  striking  in  con- 
struction. The  prologue  contains  only  the  intro- 
duction, anxiety  of  the  wife,  Deianeira,  for  Hercules 
remaining  far  away  from  home,  and  the  sending  of 
the  son,  Hyllos,  to  seek  the  father.  The  exciting 
force  lies  in  the  piece  itself,  and  forms  the  first  half 
of  the  rising  action,  of  two  parts :  first,  arrival  of 
Hercules ;  second,  Deianeira's  discovery  that  the 
female  captive  slave  whom  her  husband  had  sent  in 
advance,  was  his  mistress.  Climax:  In  her  honest 
heart,  Deianeira  resolves  to  send  to  the  beloved  man 
a  love-charm  which  a  foe  whom  he  had  slain  had 
left  her.  She  delivers  the  magic  garment  to  the 
care  of  a  herald.  The  falling  action,  in  a  single 
stage,  announces  her  anxiety  and  regret  at  sending 
the  garment ;  she  has  learned  by  an  experiment 
that  there  is  something  unearthly  in  the  magic. 
The  returning  son  tells  her  in  heartless  words,  that 
the  present  has  brought  upon  the  husband  a  fatal 
illness.  Here  follows  the  catastrophe,  also  in  two 
parts  ;  first,  a  messenger  scene  which  announces  the 
death  of  Deianeira ;  then  Hercules  himself,  the 
chief  hero  of  the  piece,  is  brought  forward,  suffer- 
ing mortal  pain,  as  after  a  great  pathos  scene,  he 
demands  of  his  son  the  burning  of  his  body  on 
Mount  CEta. 

The  tragedy,  Ajax,  contains  after'  the  prologue 
in  three  parts,  a  rising  movement  in  three  stages  ; 
first,  the  lament  and  family  affection  of  Ajax, — and 


THE   CONSTRUCTION   OF   THE   DRAMA.       177 

his  determination  to  die;  then  the  veiling  of  his 
plan,  out  of  regard  for  the  sadness  which  it  would 
cause  his  friends ;  finally,  without  our  perceiving  a 
change  of  scene,  an  announcement  by  messenger, 
that  to-day  Ajax  will  not  come  out  of  his  tent,  and 
the  departure  of  his  wife  and  the  chorus  to  seek  the 
absent  hero.  Hereupon  follows  the  climax — the 
pathos  scene  of  Ajax  and  his  suicide,  especially  dis- 
tinguished by  this,  that  the  chorus  has  previously 
left  the  orchestra,  so  that  the  scene  presents  the 
character  of  a  monologue.  Now  comes  the  return 
action  in  three  parts ;  first,  the  discovery  of  the 
dead  man,  lament  of  Tecmessa  and  of  Teucros,  who 
now  enters ;  then  the  conflict  between  Teucros  and 
Menelaus,  who  will  forbid  the  burial.  The  catas- 
trophe at  last,  an  intensifying  of  this  strife  in  a  dia- 
logue scene  between  Teucros  and  Agamemnon,  the 
mediation  of  Odysseus,  and  the  reconciliation. 

Philoctetcs  is  noticeable  for  its  particularly  regular 
form ;  the  action  rises  and  falls  in  beautiful  propor- 
tion. After  a  dialogue  scene  between  Odysseus 
and  Neoptolemus  in  the  prologue  has  made  clear 
the  premises  and  the  exciting  force,  the  first  part 
follows,  the  ascent,  in  a  group  of  three  connected 
scenes ;  after  this  come  the  climax  and  the  tragic 
force  in  two  scenes,  of  which  the  first  is  a  two-part 
pathos  scene  splendidly  finished  ;  then  the  third,  the 
return  action,  corresponding  exactly  to  the  first, 
again  in  a  group  of  three  connected  scenes.  Just 
as  perfectly,  the  choruses  correspond  to  each  other. 
The  first  song  is  an  alternating  song  between  the 


i;8      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

second  actor  and  the  chorus ;  the  third,  just  such 
an  alternating  song  between  the  first  actor  and  the 
chorus.  Only  in  the  middle  stands  a  full  choral 
song.  The  resolution  of  the  chorus  into  a  dramat- 
ically excited  play  in  concert — not  only  in  Philoc- 
tetes  but  in  (Edipus — is  not  an  accident.  It  may  be 
concluded  from  the  firm  command  of  form,  and  the 
masterly  conduct  of  the  scenes,  that  this  drama 
belongs  to  the  later  time  of  Sophocles." 

Here,  also,  the  first  actor,  Philoctetes,  has  the 
pathetic  role.  His  violent  agitation,  represented 
with  marvellous  beauty  and  in  rich  detail,  goes 
through  a  wide  circle  of  moods,  and  arises  in  the 
climax,  the  great  pathos  scene  of  the  play,  with 
soul- convulsing  power.  The  circumstance  of  hor- 
rible physical  suffering,  so  important  to  the  drama, 
and  immediately  following,  soul-devouring  mental 
anguish,  have  never  been  delineated  so  boldly  and 
so  magnificently.  But  the  honest,  embittered,  ob- 
stinate man  affords  no  opportunity  to  the  action 
itself  for  dramatic  movement.  This,  therefore,  is 
placed  in  the  soul  of  the  second  actor,  and  Neop- 
tolemus  is  leader  of  the  action.  After  he  has,  in  the 
prologue,  not  without  reluctance,  acceded  to  the 
wily  counsels  of  Odysseus,  he  attempts  in  the  first 
part  of  the  action  to  lead  Philoctetes  forward  by 
deception.  Philoctetes  confidently  leans  for  sup- 
port upon  him  as  the  helper  who  promises  to 
bring  him  into  his  own  land  ;  and  he  delivers  to  this 
helper  the  sacred  bow.  But  the  sight  of  the  sick 
man's  severe  sufferings,  the  touching  gratitude  of 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.       179 

Philoctetes  for  the  humanity  which  is  shown  him, 
arouse  the  nobler  feelings  of  the  son  of  Achilles; 
and  with  an  inward  struggle,  he  confesses  to  the  sick 
man  his  purpose  of  taking  him  with  his  bow  to  the 
Greek  army.  The  reproaches  of  the  disappointed 
Philoctetes  increase  the  other's  remorse,  and  his 
excitement  is  still  further  augmented  when  Odys- 
seus, hastening  by,  has  Philoctetes  seized  by  vio- 
lence. At  the  beginning  of  the  catastrophe,  the 
honesty  of  Neoptolemus  is  in  strife  against  Odys- 
seus himself  ;  he  gives  back  to  Philoctetes  the 
deadly  bow,  summons  him  once  more  to  follow  to 
the  army  ;  and,  as  Philoctetes  refuses,  promises  him 
once  more  what  he  falsely  promised  at  the  begin 
ning  of  the  play  ;  now  his  achievement  must  be  to 
defy  the  hatred  of  the  whole  Greek  army,  and  lead 
the  suffering  man  and  his  ship  home.  Thus,  through 
the  transformations  in  the  character  of  the  hero 
who  directs  the  action,  this  is  concluded  dramatically, 
but  in  direct  opposition  to  the  popular  tradition  ; 
and  in  order  to  bring  the  unchanging  material  of  the 
piece  into  harmony  with  the  dramatic  life  of  the 
play,  Sophocles  has  seized  upon  a  device  which  is 
nowhere  else  found  in  his  plays  ;  he  has  the  image 
of  Hercules  appear  in  the  closing  scene  and  un- 
settle the  resolution  of  Philoctetes.  This  conclu- 
sion, according  to  our  sense  of  fitness,  an  excrescence, 
is  still  instructive  in  two  directions  :  it  shows  how 
even  Sophocles  was  restricted  by  the  epic  rigor  of 
a  traditional  myth,  and  how  his  high  talent  strug- 
gled against  dangers  upon  which,  shortly  after  his 


i8o      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

time,  the  old  tragedy  was  to  be  wrecked.  Further, 
he  gives  us  instruction  concerning  the  means  by 
which  a  wise  poet  might  overcome  the  disadvantage 
of  an  apparition  out  of  keeping,  not  with  our  feel- 
ing, but  with  the  sensibility  of  his  spectators.  He 
pacified  his  artistic  conscience  first  of  all  by  pre- 
viously concluding  the  inner  dramatic  movement 
entirely.  So  far  as  the  piece  plays  between  Neop- 
tolemus  and  Philoctetes,  it  is  at  an  end.  After  a 
violent  conflict,  the  two  heroes  have  nobly  come  to 
a  mutual  agreement.  But  they  have  arrived  at  a 
point  against  which  both  the  oracle  and  the  advant- 
age of  the  Grecian  army  offer  objections.  The 
third  actor,  the  wily,  unscrupulous  statesman,  Odys- 
seus, now  represents  the  highest  interest.  With  the 
fondness  which  Sophocles  also  elsewhere  shows  for 
even  his  third  man,  he  has  here  specially  dignified 
that  personage.  After  the  counter-player  has  in 
the  prologue  agreeably  expressed  the  well-known 
character  of  Odysseus,  the  latter  appears  immedi- 
ately in  a  disguise  in  which  the  spectator  not  only 
knows  in  advance  that  the  strange  figure  is  a  shrewd 
invention  of  Odysseus,  but  also  recognizes  the  voice 
of  Odysseus  and  his  sly  behavior.  Three  times  more 
he  appears  as  Odysseus  in  the  action,  in  order  to 
point  to  the  necessity  of  the  seizure  as  an  advantage 
of  the  whole  ;  his  opposition  becomes  continually 
bolder  and  more  emphatic.  At  last,  in  the  catas- 
trophe, shortly  before  the  divine  hero  becomes 
visible  on  high,  the  warning  voice  of  Odysseus 
rings  out;  his  form,  apparently  protected  by  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.         181 

rock,  appears  in  order  once  more  to  express  oppo- 
sition ;  and  this  time  his  threatening  cry  is  sharp 
and  conscious  of  victory.  When,  only  a  short  time 
afterwards,  perhaps  above  the  same  spot  where 
Odysseus's  figure  was  seen  for  a  moment,  the  trans- 
figured form  of  Hercules  is  visible,  and  again  with 
the  voice  of  the  third  actor,  makes  the  same  de- 
mand in  a  mild  and  reconciling  tone,  Hercules 
himself  appears  to  the  spectator  as  an  intensifying 
of  Odysseus  ;  and  in  this  last  repetition  of  the  same 
command,  the  spectator  perceived  nothing  new  en- 
tering from  without  ;  but  rather  he  perceived  more 
vividly  the  irresistible  power  of  the  keen  human 
intelligence  which  had  struggled  through  the  entire 
play  against  the  impassioned  confusion  of  the  other 
actor.  The  prudence  and  calculation  of  this  inten- 
sification, the  spiritual  unity  of  the  three  roles  of 
the  third  actor,  were  confidently  believed  by  the 
audience  to  be  a  beauty  of  the  piece. 

IV. 
THE   GERMANIC   DRAMA. 

That  enjoyment  of  exhibitions,  the  representa- 
tion of  unusual  occurrences  by  acting  on  the  stage, 
governed  the  beginnings  of  the  Germanic  drama,  is 
still  recognized  by  the  works  of  higher  art  as  well  as 
by  the  inclination  of  the  public,  and  most  of  all  by 
the  first  attempts  of  our  dramatic  poets. 

Shakespeare  filled  with  dramatic  life  the  old  cus- 
toms of  a  play-loving  people ;  from  a  loosely  woven 


i  i 

182      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

narrative,  he  created  an  artistic  drama.  But  even 
up  to  his  time  and  that  of  his  romantic  contempo- 
raries, there  shot  across  nearly  two  thousand  years 
some  brilliant  rays  from  the  splendid  time  of  the 
Attic  theater. 

To  him  also,  the  arrangement  of  a  piece  depended 
on  the  construction  of  his  stage.  This  had,  even 
in  his  later  time,  scarcely  side  curtains  and  a  sim- 
ple scaffolding  in  the  rear,  which  formed  a  smaller 
raised  stage,  with  pillars  at  the  sides,  and  a  bal- 
cony above,  from  which  steps  led  to  the  front  stage 
below.  The  chief  stage  had  no  drop  curtain ;  the 
divisions  of  the  piece  could  be  separated  only  by 
pauses ;  there  were,  therefore,  fewer  divisions  than 
with  us  now.  It  was  not  possible,  as  it  is  on  our 
stage,  to  begin  in  the  midst  of  a  situation,  nor  to 
leave  it  incomplete.  In  Shakespeare's  plays,  all  the 
players  must  enter  before  they  could  address  the 
audience,  and  they  must  all  make  their  exit  before  the 
eyes  of  the  audience ;  even  the  dead  must  thus  be 
borne  off  in  an  appropriate  manner.  Only  the  inner 
stage  was  concealed  behind  curtains,  which  could  be 
drawn  apart  and  drawn  together  without  trouble,  and 
denote  a  convenient  change  of  scene.  First,  the  front 
space  was  the  street, — on  which,  for  instance,  Romeo 
and  his  companions  entered  in  masks ;  when  they 
had  departed,  the  curtains  were  drawn  apart,  and 
there  was  the  guest-room  of  the  Capulets,  as  indi- 
cated by  the  servants  in  attendance.  Capulet  came 
forward  from  the  middle  of  the  background  and 
greeted  his  friends ;  his  company  poured  in  upon 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        183 

the  stage,  and  spread  about  the  foreground.  When 
the  guests  had  departed,  the  middle  curtain  was 
drawn  behind  Juliet  and  the  nurse,  and  the  stage 
became  a  street  again,  from  which  Romeo  slipped 
behind  the  curtain  to  be  out  of  sight  of  his  boister- 
ous friends  who  were  calling  him.  When  these 
were  gone,  Juliet  appeared  on  the  balcony,  the  stage 
became  a  garden,  Romeo  appeared, 18and  so  on. 
Everything  must  be  more  in  motion,  lighter,  quicker 
changing  of  scene-groups,  a  more  rapid  coming  and 
going,  a  more  nimble  play,  a  closer  concentration 
of  the  aggregate  impression.  Attention  is  called  to 
this  oft  discussed  arrangement  of  the  stage,  be- 
cause this  dispensing  with  changes  of  scenes,  this 
former  accustoming  of  the  spectator  to  make  every 
transition  of  place  and  time  with  his  own  active 
fancy,  exerted  a  decided  influence  on  Shakespeare's 
manner  of  dividing  his  plays.  The  number  of  the 
smaller  divisions  could  be  greater  than  with  us, 
because  they  disturbed  the  whole  less ;  sometimes 
little  scenes  were  inserted  with  no  trouble  at  all. 
What  seems  to  us  a  breaking  up  of  the  action,  was 
less  perceptible  on  account  of  the  technical  arrange- 
ment. 

Moreover,  Shakespeare's  audience,  accustomed 
to  the  spectacular  from  former  times,  had  a  prefer- 
ence for  such  plays  as  presented  great  numbers  of 
men  in  violent  commotion.  Processions,  battles, 
scenes  full  of  figures,  were  preferably  seen  and  be- 
longed, notwithstanding  the  scanty  equipment  which 
on  the  whole  the  spectacular  drama  of  the  time  pos- 


184      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

sessed,  to  the  cherished  additions  of  a  play.  Like 
the  Englishmen  of  that  time,  Shakespeare's  heroes 
are  fond  of  company.  They  like  to  appear  with  a 
train  of  attendants,  and  talk  confidentially  in  unre- 
strained conversation  about  the  important  relations 
of  their  lives,  on  the  market  place  and  on  the 
street. 

In  Shakespeare's  time,  still,  the  actor  must  assume 
several  roles  ;  but  his  task  now  was  to  conceal  his 
own  distinctive  personality  entirely,  and  clothe  beau- 
tiful truth  with  the  appearance  of  reality.  Only 
the  parts  of  women,  which  were  still  played  by 
men,  preserved  something  of  the  ancient  character 
of  stage  play,  which  made  the  spectator  a  confidant 
in  the  illusion  which  was  to  be  produced. 

Upon  such  a  stage  appeared  Germanic  dramatic 
art  in  its  first  and  most  beautiful  bloom.  Shakes- 
peare's technique  is  the  same,  in  essential  respects, 
that  we  still  strive  to  attain.  And  he  has,  on  the 
whole,  established  the  form  and  construction  of  our 
pieces.  In  the  following  pages  the  discussion  must 
recur  to  him  continually  ;  therefore,  in  this  place, 
only  a  few  of  the  characteristics  of  his  time  and  of 
his  manner,  which  we  can  no  longer  imitate,  will 
be  mentioned. 

In  the  first  place,  the  change  of  his  scenes  is  too 
frequent  for  our  stage  ;  above  all,  the  little  side 
scenes  are  disturbing.  Where  he  binds  together  a 
number  of  scenes,  we  must  form  the  corresponding 
part  of  the  action  into  a  single  scene.  When,  for 
example,  in  Coriolanus,  the  dark  figure  of  Aufidius 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        185 

or  of  another  Volsciah  appears  from  the  first  act 
forward  in  short  scenes,  in  order  to  indicate  the 
counter-play,  up  to  the  second  half  of  the  piece 
where  this  presses  powerfully  to  the  front,  we  are 
entirely  at  a  loss,  on  our  stage,  to  make  these  fleet- 
ing forces  effective,  with  the  exception  of  the  battle 
scene  in  the  beginning  of  the  rising  action.  But 
we  are  obliged  to  compose  the  scenes  more  strictly 
for  the  chief  heroes  and  represent  their  emotions 
and  movements  in  a  smaller  number  of  situations, 
and  therefore  with  fuller  elaboration. 

In  Shakespeare  we  admire  the  mighty  power 
with  which,  after  a  brief  introduction,  he  throws 
excitement  in  the  way  of  his  heroes  and  impels 
them  swiftly  in  rapid  upward  stages  to  a  momentous 
height.  His  method  of  leading  the  action  and  the 
characters  beyond  the  climax,  in  the  first  half  of  the 
play,  may  also  serve  as  a  model  to  us.  And  in  the 
second  half,  the  catastrophe  itself  is  planned  with 
the  sureness  and  scope  of  genius,  with  no  attempt 
at  overwhelming  effect,  without  apparent  effort, 
with  concise  execution,  a  consequence  of  the  play, 
following  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  the  great  poet 
does  not  always  have  success  with  the  forces  of  the 
falling  action,  between  climax  and  catastrophe,  the 
part  which  fills  about  the  fourth  act  of  our  plays.  In 
this  important  place,  he  seems  too  much  restrained 
by  the  customs  of  his  stage.  In  many  of  the  great- 
est dramas  of  his  artistic  time,  the  action  is  divided 
up,  in  this  part,  into  several  little  scenes,  which  have 
an  episodical  character  and  are  inserted  only  to 


186      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

make  the  connection  clear.  The  inner  conditions 
of  the  hero  are  concealed,  the  heightening  of  effects 
and  the  concentration  so  necessary  here  fails.  It 
is  so  in  Hamlet,  in  King  Lear,  in  Macbeth,  somewhat 
so  in  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  Even  in  Julius  Ccesar, 
the  return  action  contains,  indeed,  that  splendid 
quarrel  scene  and  the  reconciliation  between  Brutus 
and  Cassius,  and  the  appearance  of  the  ghost  ;  but 
what  follows  is  again  much  divided,  fragmentary. 
In  Richard  III.,  the  falling  action  is  indeed  drawn 
together  into  several  great  impulses  ;  but  yet  these 
do  not  in  a  sufficient  degree  correspond  in  stage 
effect  to  the  immense  power  of  the  first  part. 

We  explain  this  characteristic  of  Shakespeare 
from  a  relic  of  the  old  custom  of  telling  the  story 
on  the  stage  by  means  of  speech  and  responsive 
speech.  As  the  dark  suspicion  against  the  king 
works  upon  Hamlet ;  as  Macbeth  struggles  with  the 
idea  of  murder ;  as  Lear  is  continually  plunged 
deeper  into  misery  ;  as  Richard  strides  from  one 
crime  to  another, —  this  must  be  represented  in  the 
first  half  of  the  drama.  The  ego,  the  self  of  the 
hero,  which  strives  to  achieve  its  design,  here  con- 
centrates almost  the  entire  interest  in  itself.  But 
from  this  point  on,  where  the  will  has  become  deed, 
or  where  the  impassioned  embarrassment  of  the 
hero  has  reached  the  highest  degree,  where  the 
consequences  of  what  has  happened  are  at  work 
and  the  victory  of  the  counter-play  begins,  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  opponent  becomes,  of  course, 
greater.  As  soon  as  Macbeth  has  murdered  the 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        187 

king  and  Banquo,  the  poet  must  turn  the  efforts  of 
the  murderous  despot  toward  other  men  and  events  ; 
other  opponents  must  bring  the  conflict  with  him  to 
an  end.  When  Coriolanus  is  banished  from  Rome, 
he  must  be  brought  forward  in  new  relations  and 
with  new  purposes.  When  Lear  flies  about  as  a 
deranged  beggar,  the  piece  must  either  close,  a 
thing  which  is  not  possible  without  something  fur- 
ther, or  the  remaining  persons  must  make  apparent 
new  uses  of  his  terrible  fate. 

It  is  also  natural  that  from  the  climax  downward, 
a  greater  number  .of  new  motives,  perhaps,  too,  of 
new  persons,  may  be  introduced  into  the  piece  ;  it  is 
further  natural  that  this  play  of  the  opposing  party 
must  set  forth  the  influences  which  are  exerted  upon 
the  hero  from  without,  and  therefore  makes  neces- 
sary more  external  action  and  a  broader  elaboration 
of  the  engrossing  moment.  And  it  is  also  not  at 
all  surprising  that  Shakespeare  right  here  yielded 
more  to  curiosity  and  to  the  very  convenient  scene- 
connection  of  his  time  than  is  allowable  on  our 
stage. 

But  it  is  not  this  alone.  Sometimes  one  can  not 
repel  the  feeling  that  the  poet's  ardor  for  his  heroes 
is  lessened  in  the  second  part.  It  is  certainly  not 
so  in  Romeo  and  Juliet.  In  the  return  action,  Romeo, 
indeed,  is  concealed  ;  but  the  poet's  darling,  Juliet, 
is  so  much  the  more  powerfully  delineated.  It  is 
not  so  in  Coriolanus,  where  the  two  most  beautiful 
scenes  of  the  play,  that  in  the  house  of  Aufidius, 
and  the  grand  scene  with  the  hero's  mother,  lie  in  the 


188      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

return  action.  But  it  is  strikingly  so  in  King  Lear. 
What  follows  the  hovel  scene  is  only  an  episode  or 
a  divided  narrative  in  dialogue,  with  insufficient 
effect ;  the  second  mad  scene  of  Lear  is  also  no 
intensifying  of  the  first.  Similarly  in  Macbeth, 
after  the  frightful  banquet  scene,  the  poet  is  through 
with  the  inner  life  of  his  hero.  The  finished  witch 
scene,  the  prophesying,  the  dreary  episode  in  Mac- 
duff's  house, —  few  attractive  figures  of  the  coun- 
ter-play fill-  this  part,  in  an  arrangement  of  scenes 
which  we  may  not  imitate  ;  and  only  occasionally 
the  great  power  of  the  poet  blazes  up,  as  in  the 
catastrophe  of  Lady  Macbeth. 

Manifestly,  it  is  his  greatest  joy,  to  fashion  from 
the  most  secret  depths  of  human  nature,  a  will  and 
a  deed.  In  this  he  is  inexhaustibly  rich,  profound, 
and  powerful.  No  other  poet  equals  him.  If  he 
has  once  rendered  his  hero  this  service,  if  he  has 
represented  the  spiritual  processes  culminating  in 
a  portentous  deed,  then  the  counter-influence  of  the 
world,  the  later  destiny  of  the  hero,  does  not  fill  him 
with  the  same  interest. 

Even  in  Hamlet,  there  is  a  noticeable  weakness  in 
the  return  action.  The  tragedy  was  probably 
worked  over  several  times  by  the  poet ;  it  was 
apparently  a  favorite  subject ;  he  has  mysteriously 
infused  into  it  the  most  thoughtful  and  penetrating 
poetry.  But  these  workings-over  at  long  intervals 
have  taken  from  the  plav  the  beautiful  proportion, 
which  is  only  possible  in  a  simultaneous  moulding 
of  all  parts.  Hamlet  is,  of  course,  no  precipitate  of 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.        189 

poetic  moods  from  half  a  human  life,  like  Faust; 
but  breaks,  gaps,  little  contradictions  in  tone  and 
speech,  between  characters  and  action,  remained 
ineffaceable  to  the  poet.  That  Shakespeare  worked 
out  the  character  of  Hamlet  so  fondly,  and  intensi- 
fied it  till  beyond  the  climax,  makes  the  contrast  in 
the  second  half  only  so  much  the  greater ;  indeed, 
the  character  itself  receives  something  iridescent 
and  ambiguous,  from  the  fact  that  deeper  and  more 
spirited  motives  were  introduced  into  the  texture  of 
the  rising  action.  Something  of  the  old  manner  of 
bringing  narrative  upon  the  stage  clung  also  to  the 
poet's  last  revision ;  some  places  in  Ophelia's  exit 
and  the  graveyard  scene  appear  to  be  new-cut 
diamonds,  which  the  poet  has  set  in  while  working 
over  the  earlier  connection. 

Nevertheless  it  is  instructive  to  set  forth  dis- 
tinctly in  a  scheme,  the  artistic  combination  of  the 
drama  from  the  constituent  parts  already  discussed. 
What  is  according  to  plan,  what  is  designed  for  a 
certain  purpose,  has  not  been  found  by  the  poet 
entirely  through  the  same  consideration  which  is 
necessary  to  the  reader  when  instituting  his  review. 
Much  is  evidently  without  careful  weighing;  it  has 
come  into  being  as  if  by  natural  necessity,  through 
creative  power ;  in  other  places,  the  poet  is  thought- 
ful, considerate,  has  doubted,  then  decided.  But 
the  laws  of  his  creation,  whether  they  directed  his 
invention  secretly  and  unconsciously  to  himself ;  or 
whether,  as  rules  known  to  him,  they  stimulated  the 
creative  power  for  certain  effects,  they  are  for  us 


igo      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

readers  of  his  completed  works,  everywhere,  dis- 
tinctly recognizable.  This  self-developing  organiza- 
tion of  the  drama,  according  to  a  law,  will  here  be 
briefly  analyzed,  without  regard  to  the  customary 
division  into  acts. 

Introduction,  i .  The  key-note  ;  the  ghost  appears 
on  the  platform ;  the  guards  and  Horatio.  2.  The 
exposition  itself ;  Hamlet  in  a  room  of  state,  before 
the  beginning  of  the  exciting  force.  3.  Connecting 
scene  with  what  follows ;  Horatio  and  the  guards 
inform  Hamlet  of  the  appearance  of  the  ghost. 
Interpolated  exposition  scene  of  the  accessory 
action.  The  family  of  Polonius,  at  the  departure 
of  Laertes. 

The  Exciting  Force.  I.  Introductory  key-note; 
expectation  of  the  ghost.  2.  The  ghost  appears  to 
Hamlet.  3.  Chief  part,  it  reveals  the  murder  to 
him.  4.  Transition  to  what  follows.  Hamlet  and 
his  confidants. 

Through  the  two  ghost  scenes,  between  which 
the  introduction  of  the  chief  persons  occurs,  the 
scenes  of  the  introduction  and  of  the  first  excite- 
ment are  enclosed  in  a  group,  the  climax  of  which 
lies  near  the  end. 

Ascending  action  in  four  stages.  First  stage:  the 
counter-players.  Polonius  propounds  that  Hamlet 
has  become  deranged  through  love  for  Ophelia. 
Two  little  scenes :  Polonius  in  his  house,  and  before 
the  king;  transition  to  what  follows.  Second 
stage :  Hamlet  determines  to  put  the  king  to  a  test 
by  means  of  a  play.  A  great  scene  with  episodical 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        191 

performances,  Hamlet  against  Polonius,  the  cour- 
tiers, the  actors.  Hamlet's  soliloquy  forms  the 
transition.  Third  stage  :  Hamlet's  examination  by 
the  counter-players.  I.  The  king  and  the  intriguers. 
2.  Hamlet's  celebrated  monologue.  3.  Hamlet 
warns  Ophelia.  4.  The  king  becomes  suspicious. 
These  three  stages  of  the  rising  action  are  worked 
out  with  reference  to  the  effect  of  the  two  others ; 
the  first  becomes  an  introduction,  the  broad  and 
agreeable  elaboration  of  the  second  forms  the  chief 
part  of  the  ascent ;  the  third,  through  the  continua- 
tion of  the  monologue,  beautifully  connected  with 
the  second,  forms  the  climax  of  the  group,  with 
sudden  descent.  Fourth  stage,  which  leads  up  to 
the  climax :  the  play,  confirmation  of  Hamlet's 
suspicion.  I.  Introduction.  Hamlet,  the  players 
and  courtiers.  2.  The  rendering  of  the  play,  the 
king.  3.  Transition,  Hamlet,  Horatio,  and  the 
courtiers. 

Climax.  A  scene  with  a  prelude,  the  king 
praying.  Hamlet  hesitating.  Closely  joined  to 
this,  the 

Tragic  Force  or  Incident.  Hamlet,  during  an  inter- 
view with  his  mother,  stabs  Polonius.  Two  little 
scenes,  as  transition  to  what  follows ;  the  king  de- 
termines to  send  Hamlet  away.  These  three  scene- 
groups  are  also  bound  into  a  whole,  in  the  midst  of 
which  the  climax  stands.  At  either  side  in  splendid 
working-out,  are  the  last  stage  of  the  rising  action 
and  the  tragic  force. 

The  Return.      Introductory  side-scene.      Fortin- 


I92      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

bras  and  Hamlet  on  the  way.  First  stage : 
Ophelia's  madness,  and  Laertes  demanding  revenge. 
Side  scene :  Hamlet's  letter  to  Horatio.  Second 
stage :  A  scene ;  Laertes  and  the  king  discuss 
Hamlet's  death.  The  announcement  of  the  queen 
that  Ophelia  is  dead,  forms  the  conclusion,  and  the 
transition  to  what  follows.  Third  stage  :  Burial  of 
Ophelia.  Introduction  scene,  with  great  episodical 
elaboration.  Hamlet  and  the  grave-diggers.  The 
short,  restrained  chief  scene ;  the  apparent  recon- 
ciliation of  Hamlet  and  Laertes. 

Catastrophe.  Introductory  scene:  Hamlet  and 
Horatio,  hatred  of  the  king.  As  transition,  the 
announcement  of  Osric  ;  the  chief  scene,  the  killing. 
Arrival  of  Fortinbras. 

The  three  stages  of  the  falling  action  are  con- 
structed less  regularly  than  those  of  the  first  half. 
The  little  side  scenes  without  action,  through 
which  Hamlet's  journey  and  return  are  announced, 
as  well  as  the  episode  with  the  grave-diggers, 
interrupt  the  connection  of  scenes.  The  work  of 
the  dramatic  close  is  of  ancient  brevity  and  vigor. 

V. 
THE   FIVE  ACTS. 

The  drama  of  the  Hellenes  was  built  up  in  a  reg- 
ular system  of  parts,  so  that  between  a  completed 
introduction  and  the  catastrophe,  the  climax  came 
out  powerfully,  bound  by  means  of  a  few  scenes  of 
the  rising  and  of  the  falling  action  with  the  begin- 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        193 

ning  and  the  end;  within  these  limits  was  an  action 
filled  with  violent  passion,  and  elaborately  finished. 
The  drama  of  Shakespeare  led  an  extensive  action 
in  a  varied  series  of  dramatic  forces,  in  frequent 
change  of  finished  scenes  and  accessory  scenes,  by 
steep  ascent,  up  to  a  lofty  height ;  and  from  this 
summit  again  downward,  by  stages.  The  whole 
passed  before  the  spectator  tumultuously,  in  violent 
commotion,  rich  in  figures  and  sublime  effects  prom- 
inently brought  forward.  The  German  stage,  on 
which  since  Lessing  our  art  has  blossomed,  col- 
lected the  scenic  effects  into  larger  groups,  which 
were  separated  from  each  other  by  more  marked 
boundaries.  The  effects  are  carefully  prepared,  the 
ascent  is  slow,  the  altitude  which  is  attained  is  less 
lofty  and  of  longer  continuance;  and  gradually,  as 
it  arose,  the  action  sinks  to  the  close. 

The  curtain  of  our  stage  has  had  a  material  influ- 
ence on  the  structure  of  our  plays.  The  parts  of 
the  drama,  which  have  been  presented  already,  must 
now  be  disposed  in  five  separate  divisions ;  they 
possessed  greater  independence,  because  they  were 
drawn  farther  apart  from  each  other.  The  transi- 
tion from  the  old  way  of  dividing  the  action  to  our 
five  acts,  was,  of  course,  long  ago  prepared.  The 
meritorious  method  of  binding  together  different 
moods,  which  the  ancient  chorus  between  the  single 
parts  of  the  action  represented,  failed  already  in 
Shakespeare ;  but  the  open  stage,  and  the  pauses, 
certainly  shorter,  made,  as  we  frequently  recognize 
in  his  dramas,  breaks  in  the  connection,  not  always 


194      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

so  deep  as  does  in  our  time,  the  close  by  means  of 
the  curtain,  and  the  interval  with  music,  or  without 
it.  With  the  curtain,  however,  there  came  also  the 
attempt  not  only  to  indicate  the  environment  of  the 
person  who  entered,  but  to  carry  on  the  perform- 
ance with  more  pretentious  elaboration  by  means  of 
painting  and  properties.  By  this  means,  the  effects 
of  the  play  were  essentially  colored,  and  only  occa- 
sionally supported.  Moreover,  by  this  means,  the 
different  parts  of  the  action  were  more  distinctly 
separated  than  they  were  yet  in  Shakespeare's  time. 
For  by  means  of  change  of  decorations  often  bril- 
liant, not  only  the  acts,  but  the  smaller  parts  of  the 
action,  became  peculiar  pictures  which  form  a  con- 
trast in  color  and  tone.  Every  such  change  dis- 
tracts ;  each  makes  a  new  tension,  a  new  intensifying, 
necessary. 

Therefore  little  but  important  alterations  were 
produced  in  the  structure  of  the  pieces.  Each  act 
received  the  character  of  a  completed  action.  For 
each,  a  striking  of  chords  to  give  the  keynote,  a 
short  introduction,  a  climax  in  strong  relief,  an 
effective  close,  were  desirable.  The  rich  equipment 
for  scenic  surroundings  compelled  a  restriction  of 
the  frequent  change  of  place,  which  in  Shakespeare's 
time  had  become  too  easy,  a  leaving  out  of  illustra- 
tive side  scenes,  and  the  laying  of  longer  parts  of  the 
action  in  the  same  room,  and  in  divisions  of  time 
following  immediately  upon  one  another.  Thus  the 
number  of  scenes  became  less,  the  dramatic  flow  of 
the  whole  more  quiet,  the  joining  of  greater  and 


THE  CONSTRUCTION   OF  THE   DRAMA.        195 

lesser  forces  more  artistic.  One  great  advantage, 
however,  was  offered  by  closing  up  the  stage.  It 
would  now  be  possible  to  begin  in  the  midst  of  a 
situation,  and  end  in  the  midst  of  a  situation.  The 
spectator  could  be  more  rapidly  initiated  into  the 
action,  and  more  quickly  dismissed,  without  taking 
in  the  bargain  the  preparation  and  the  solution  of 
what  had  held  him  spell-bound  ;  and  that  was  no 
small  gain  which  was  possible  five  times  in  a  piece, 
for  the  beginning  and  the  end  of  the  effects.  But 
this  advantage  offered  also  a  danger.  The  depic- 
tion of  situations,  the  presentation  of  circumstances 
with  less  dramatic  movement,  became  easier  now ; 
this  painting  especially  favored,  for  the  quiet  Ger- 
mans, the  longer  retention  of  the  characters  in  the 
same  enclosed  room.  On  such  a  changed  stage,  the 
German  poets  of  the  last  century  produced  their 
acts,  till  the  time  of  Schiller,  planning  with  fore- 
sight,— introducing  with  care, — all  with  a  sustained 
movement  of  scenes  and  effects  which  corresponded 
to  the  measured  and  formal  sociability  of  the  time. 

In  the  modern  drama,  in  general,  each  act  in- 
cludes one  of  the  five  parts  of  the  older  drama ;  the 
first  contains  the  introduction ;  the  second,  the  ris- 
ing action;  the  third,  the  climax;  the  fourth,  the 
return ;  the  fifth,  the  catastrophe.  But  the  neces- 
sity of  constructing  the  great  parts  of  the  piece  in 
the  same  fashion  as  to  external  contour,  renders  it 
impossible  that  the  single  acts  should  correspond 
entirely  to  the  five  great  divisions  of  the  action.  Of 
the  rising  action,  the  first  stage  was  usually  in  the 


196      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

first  act,  the  last  sometimes  in  the  third  ;  of  the  fall- 
ing action,  the  beginning  and  end  were  sometimes 
taken  in  the  third  and  fifth  acts,  and  combined  with 
the  other  component  parts  of  these  acts  into  a 
whole.  Naturally  Shakespeare  had  already,  as  a 
rule,  made  his  divisions  in  this  manner. 

This  number  of  acts  is  no  accident.  The  Roman 
stage  long  ago  adhered  to  it.  But  only  since  the 
development  of  the  modern  stage  among  the  French 
and  Germans,  has  the  present  construction  of  the 
play  been  established  in  these  countries. 

In  passing,  it  may  be  remarked  that  the  five 
parts  of  the  action  will  bear  contracting  into  a 
smaller  number  of  acts,  with  lesser  subjects  of  less 
importance  and  briefer  treatment.  The  three  points, 
the  beginning  of  the  struggle,  the  climax,  and  the 
catastrophe,  must  always  be  in  strong  contrast ;  the 
action  allows  then  of  division  into  three  acts.  Even 
in  the  briefest  action,  which  may  have  its  course  in 
one  act,  there  are  five  or  three  parts  always  recog- 
nizable. 

But  as  every  act  has  its  significance  for  the 
drama,  so  it  has  also  its  peculiarities  in  construc- 
tion. A  great  number  of  variations  is  possible  here. 
Every  material,  every  poetic  personality  demands 
its  own  right.  Still,  from  a  majority  of  works  of  art 
at  hand,  some  frequently  recurring  laws  may  be  rec- 
ognized. 

The  act  of  the  introduction  contains  still,  as  a 
rule,  the  beginning  of  the  rising  movement,  and  in 
general,  the  following  moments  or  forces  :  the  intro- 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.        197 

ductory  or  key  note,  the  scene  of  the  exposition, 
the  exciting  force,  .the  first  scene  of  the  rising 
action.  It  will  therefore  be  in  two  parts,  as  a  gen- 
eral thing,  and  concentrate  its  effects  about  two 
lesser  climaxes,  of  which  the  last  may  be  the  most 
prominent.  Thus  in  Emilia  Galotti,  the  prince  at 
his  work-table  is  the  key-note ;  the  interview  of  the 
prince  with  the  painter  is  the  exposition ;  in  the 
scene  with  Marinelli  lies  the  exciting  force,  the 
approaching  marriage  of  Emilia.  The  first  ascent 
is  in  the  following  short  scene,  with  the  prince,  in  his 
determination  to  meet  Emilia  at  the  Dominicans'.  In 
Tasso,  the  decking  of  the  statues  with  garlands  by 
the  two  women  indicates  the  prevailing  mood  of  the 
piece ;  their  succeeding  conversation  and  the  talk 
with  Alphonso  is  the  exposition.  Following  this,  the 
decking  of  Tasso  with  wreaths  by  the  princess  is 
the  exciting  force ;  the  entrance  of  Antonio  and  his 
cool  contempt  for  Tasso  is  the  first  stage  of  the 
rising  action.  So  in  Mary  Stuart,  the  forcing  of  the 
cabinets,  the  confession  to  Kennedy,  the  entrance 
of  Mortimer,  and  the  great  scene  between  Mary  and 
the  emissaries,  follow  after  each  other.  In  William 
Tell,  where  the  three  actions  are  interwoven,  there 
stands  after  the  situation  near  the  beginning,  which 
gives  the  key-note,  and  after  a  short  introductory 
colloquy  of  country  people,  the  first  exciting  force 
for  the  action  of  Tell, —  Baumgarten's  flight  and  res- 
cue. Then  follows  as  introduction  to  the  action  of 
the  confederated  Swiss,  the  scene  before  Stauffa- 
cher's  house.  After  this,  the  first  rising  action  for 


198      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Tell ;  the  conversation  before  the  hat  on  the  pole. 
Finally,  for  the  second  action,  the  exciting  force,  in 
the  conversation  of  Walter  Fiirst  and  Melchthal ; 
the  making  of  Melchthal's  father  blind ;  and  as 
finale  of  the  first  ascent,  the  resolution  of  the  three 
Swiss  to  delay  at  Riitli. 

The  act  of  the  ascent  has  for  its  duty  in  our 
dramas,  to  lead  up  to  the  action  with  increased  ten- 
sion, in  order  to  introduce  the  persons  in  the  coun- 
ter-play who  have  found  no  place  in  the  first  act. 
Whether  this  contains  one  or  several  stages  of  the 
progressing  movement,  the  hearer  has  already 
received  a  number  of  impressions  ;  therefore  in  this, 
the  struggles  must  be  greater,  a  grouping  of  several 
in  an  elaborate  scene,  and  a  good  close  to  the  act, 
will  be  useful.  In  Emilia  Galotti,  for  instance,  the 
act  begins,  as  almost  every  act  in  Lessing  does, 
with  an  introductory  scene,  in  which  the  Galotti 
family  are  briefly  presented,  then  the  intriguers  of 
Marinelli  expose  their  plan.  Then  the  action  fol- 
lows in  two  stages,  the  first  of  which  contains  the 
agitation  of  Emilia  after  the  meeting  with  the 
prince ;  the  second,  the  visit  of  Marinelli  and  his 
proposition  to  Appiani.  Both  great  scenes  are 
bound  together  by  a  smaller  situation  scene  which 
presents  Appiani  and  his  attitude  toward  Emilia. 
The  beautifully  wrought  scene  of  Marinelli  follows 
the  excited  mood  of  the  family  as  an  excellent 
close.  The  regular  construction  of  Tasso  shows  in 
two  acts  just  two  stages  of  the  ascent :  the  approach 
of  Tasso  to  the  princess,  and  in  sharp  contrast,  his 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       199 

strife  with  Antonio.  The  second  act  in  Mary  Stuart, 
in  its  introduction  leads  forward  Elizabeth  and  the 
other  counter-players  ;  it  contains  the  rising  action, 
Elizabeth's  approach  to  Mary,  in  three  stages :  first, 
the  strife  of  the  courtiers  in  favor  of  Mary  and 
against  her,  and  the  effect  of  Mary's  letter  upon 
Elizabeth ;  further,  the  conversation  of  Mortimer 
with  Leicester,  introduced  by  the  conversation  of 
the  queen  with  Mortimer ;  finally,  Leicester's  induc- 
ing Elizabeth  to  see  Mary.  Tell,  finally,  compasses 
in  this  act  the  exposition  of  its  third  action,  the 
Attinghausen  family ;  then,  for  the  confederated 
Swiss,  a  climax  in  an  elaborate  scene :  Riitli. 

The  act  of  the  climax  must  strive  to  concentrate 
its  forces  about  a  middle  scene,  brought  out  in 
strong  relief.  This  most  important  scene,  however, 
if  the  tragic  force  comes  in  here,  is  bound  with  a 
second  great  scene.  In  this  case,  the  climax  scene 
moves  well  back  toward  the  beginning  of  the  third 
act.  In  Emilia  Galotti,  the  entrance  of  Emilia  is 
the  beginning  of  this  highest  scene,  after  an  intro- 
ductory scene  in  which  the  prince  explains  the 
strained  situation,  and  after  the  explanatory 
announcement  regarding  the  attack.  The  pros- 
tration of  Emilia  and  the  declaration  of  the 
prince  are  the  highest  point  in  the  piece.  The  out- 
bursting  rage  of  Claudia  against  Marinelli  follows 
this  closely,  as  a  transition  to  the  falling  movement. 
In  Tasso,  the  act  begins  with  the  climax,  the  con- 
fessions which  the  princess  makes  to  Leonora  of 
her  attachment  to  Tasso.  Following  this,  comes  as 


200      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

first  stage  of  the  falling  movement,  the  interview 
between  Leonora  and  Antonio,  in  which  the  latter 
becomes  interested  in  Tasso  and  resolves  to  estab- 
lish the  poet  at  court.  In  Mary  Stuart,  the  climax 
and  the  tragic  force  lie  in  the  great  park  scene, 
which  is  in  two  parts ;  following  this  and  connected 
with  it  by  a  little  side  scene,  is  the  outburst  of  Mor- 
timer's passion  to  Mary,  as  beginning  of  the  falling 
action ;  the  dispersion  of  the  conspirators  forms  the 
transition  to  the  following  act.  The  third  act  of 
Tell  consists  of  three  scenes,  the  first  of  which  con- 
tains a  short  preparatory  situation  scene  in  Tell's 
house, — Tell's  setting  out ;  the  second,  the  climax 
between  Rudenz  and  Bertha ;  the  third,  the  greatly 
elaborated  climax  of  the  Tell  action, —  the  shooting 
of  the  apple. 

The  act  of  the  return  has  been  treated  by  the 
the  great  German  poets,  with  great  and  peculiar 
carefulness  since  Lessing's  time,  and  its  effects  are 
almost  always  regular  and  included  in  a  scene  of 
much  significance.  On  the  other  hand,  among  us 
Germans,  the  introduction  of  new  roles  into  the 
fourth  act  is  much  more  frequent  than  in  Shakes- 
peare, whose  praiseworthy  custom  it  was,  previously 
to  intertwine  his  counter-players  in  the  action.  If 
this  is  impracticable,  still  one  must  be  on  his  guard 
not  to  distract  attention  by  a  situation  scene,  which 
a  piece  does  not  readily  allow  in  this  place.  The 
newcomers  of  the  fourth  act  must  quickly  take  a 
vigorous  hold  of  the  action,  and  so  by  a  powerful 
energy  justify  their  appearance.  The  fourth  act  of 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.       201 

Emilia  Galotti  is  in  two  parts.  After  the  preparatory 
conversation  between  Marinelli  and  the  prince,  the 
new  character,  Orsina,  enters  as  accomplice  in  the 
counter-play.  Lessing  understood  very  well  how  to 
overcome  the  disadvantage  of  the  new  role,  by  giv- 
ing over  to  the  impassioned  excitement  of  this 
significant  character,  the  direction  of  the  following 
scenes  to  the  conclusion  of  the  act.  Her  great 
scene  with  Marinelli  is  followed  by  the  entrance  of 
Odoardo,  as  the  second  stage.  The  high  tension 
which  the  action  receives  by  this,  closes  the  act 
effectively.  In  Tasso,  the  return  has  its  course  in 
just  two  scenes :  Tasso  with  Leonora,  and  Tasso 
with  Antonio ;  both  are  concluded  by  Tasso's 
monologues.  The  regular  fourth  act  of  Mary  Stuart 
will  be  discussed  later.  In  William  Tell,  the  fourth 
act  for  Tell  himself  contains  two  stages  for  the 
falling  action ;  his  escape  from  the  boat,  and  Gess- 
ler's  death.  Between  these,  stands  the  return  action 
for  the  Attinghausen  family,  which  is  interwoven 
here  with  the  action  of  the  Swiss  confederation. 

The  act  of  the  catastrophe  contains  almost 
always,  besides  the  concluding  action,  the  last  stage 
of  the  falling  action.  In  Emilia  Galotti,  an  intro- 
ductory dialogue  between  the  prince  and  Marinelli 
begins  the  last  stage  of  the  falling  action,  that  great 
interview  between  the  prince,  Odoardo  and  Mari- 
nelli, hesitation  to  give  back  the  daughter  to  her 
father,  then  the  catastrophe,  murder  of  Emilia, 
The  same  in  Tasso;  after  the  introductory  conversa- 
tion of  Alphonso  and  Antonio,  the  chief  scene; 


202      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Tasso's  prayer  that  his  poem  be  restored  to  him ; 
then  the  catastrophe,  Tasso  and  the  princess.  Mary 
Stuart, —  otherwise  a  model  structure  in  the  individ- 
ual acts  —  shows  the  result  of  using  a  material 
which  has  kept  the  heroine  in  the  background  since 
the  middle  of  the  piece,  and  has  made  the  counter- 
player,  Elizabeth,  chief  person.  The  first  scene- 
group,  Mary's  exaltation  and  death,  contains  her 
catastrophe,  and  an  episodical  situation  scene,  and 
her  confession,  which  seemed  necessary  to  the  poet, 
in  order  to  win  for  her  yet  a  slight  increase  of  sym- 
pathy. Closely  following  her  catastrophe,  is  that  of 
Leicester,  as  connecting  link  to  the  great  catas- 
trophe of  the  piece,  Elizabeth's  retribution.  The 
last  act  of  Tell,  in  two  parts,  is  only  a  situation 
scene,  with  the  episode  of  Parricida. 

Of  all  German  dramas,  the  double  tragedy  of 
Wallenstcin  has  the  most  intricate  construction.  In 
spite  of  its  complexity,  however,  this  is  on  the 
whole  regular,  and  combines  its  action  firmly  with 
Wallensteins  Death,  as  well  as  with  The  Piccolomini. 
Had  the  idea  of  the  piece  been  perceived  by  the 
poet  as  the  historical  subject  presented  it, —  an 
ambitious  general  seeks  to  seduce  the  army  to  a 
revolt  against  its  commander,  but  is  abandoned  by 
the  majority  of  his  officers  and  soldiers  and  slain, — 
then  the  idea  would,  of  course,  have  given  a  regular 
drama  for  rising  and  falling  action,  a  not  insignifi- 
cant excitement,  the  possibility  of  a  faithful  recon- 
struction of  the  historical  hero. 

But  with  this  conception  of  the  idea,  what  is 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE  DRAMA.       203 

best  is  wanting  to  the  action.  For  a  deliberate 
treason,  which  was  firmly  in  the  mind  of  the  hero 
from  the  beginning,  excluded  the  highest  dramatic 
task, —  the  working  out  of  the  conclusion  from  the 
impassioned  and  agitated  soul  of  the  hero.  Wal- 
lenstein  must  be  presented  as  he  is  turning  traitor, 
gradually,  through  his  own  disposition,  and  the 
compulsion  of  his  relations  ;  so  another  conception 
of  the  idea,  and  an  extension  of  the  action  became 
necessary, —  a  general  is,  through  excessive  power, 
contentions  of  his  adversaries,  and  his  own  pride  of 
heart,  brought  to  a  betrayal  of  his  commanding 
officer ;  he  seeks  to  seduce  the  army  to  revolt,  but 
is  abandoned  by  the  majority  of  his  officers  and 
soldiers,  and  slain. 

With  this  conception  of  the  idea,  the  rising  half 
of  the  action  must  show  a  progressive  infatuation  of 
the  hero,  to  the  climax,  —  to  the  determination 
upon  treason ;  then  comes  a  part,  —  the  seduction 
of  the  army  to  revolt, —  where  the  action  hovers 
about  the  same  height ;  finally  in  a  mad  plunge, 
failure  and  destruction.  The  conflict  of  the  general 
and  his  army  had  become  the  second  part  of  the 
play.  The  division  of  this  action  into  the  five  acts 
would  be  about  the  following:  First  act,  introduc- 
tion, the  assembling  of  Wallenstein's  army  at  Pilsen. 
Exciting  force  ;  dispatching  of  the  imperial  ambassa- 
dor, Questenberg.  Second  act,  rising  movement; 
Wallenstein  seeks,  in  any  case,  the  cooperation  of 
the  army,  through  the  signatures  of  the  generals ; 
banquet  scene.  Third  act,  through  evil  suggestions, 


204      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

excited  pride,  desire  of  rule,  Wallenstein  is  forced 
to  treat  with  the  Swedes.  Climax :  Scene  with 
Wrangel,  to  which  is  closely  joined,  as  the  tragic 
force,  the  first  victory  of  the  adversary,  Octavio  ; 
the  gaining  of  General  Buttler  for  the  emperor. 
Fourth  act,  return  action,  revolt  of  the  generals,  and 
the  majority  of  the  army.  Close  of  the  act,  a 
scene  with  cuirassiers.  Fifth  act,  Wallenstein  in 
Eger,  and  his  death.  In  the  broad  and  fine  elabo- 
ration which  Schiller  did  not  deny  himself,  it  was 
impossible  for  him  to  crowd  the  material  so  rich  in 
figures  and  in  forces,  so  full  of  meaning,  into  the 
frame  of  five  acts. 

Besides,  the  character  of  Max  very  soon  became 
exceedingly  important  to  him,  for  reasons  which 
could  not  be  put  aside.  The  necessity  of  having  a 
bright  figure  in  the  gloomy  group  created  him  ;  and 
the  wish  to  make  more  significant  the  relations  be- 
tween Wallenstein  and  his  opponents,  enforced  this 
necessity. 

In  intimate  relation  with  Max,  Friedland's 
daughter  grew  to  womanhood  ;  and  these  lovers, 
pictures  characteristic  of  Schiller,  quickly  won  a 
deep  import  in  the  soul  of  the  creating  poet,  ex- 
panding far  beyond  the  episodical.  Max,  placed 
between  Wallenstein  and  Octavio,  pictured  to  the 
eye  of  the  poet  a  strong  contrast  to  either  ;  he  en- 
tered the  drama  as  a  second  first  hero  ;  the  episodi- 
cal love  scenes,  the  conflicts  between  father  and 
son,  between  the  young  hero  and  Wallenstein,  ex- 
panded to  a  special  action. 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF   THE   DRAMA.       205 

The  idea  of  this  second  action  was  :  A  high- 
minded,  unsuspecting  youth,  who  loves  his  general's 
daughter,  perceives  that  his  father  is  leading  a 
political  intrigue  against  his  general,  and  separates 
himself  from  him  ;  he  recognizes  that  his  general 
has  become  a  traitor,  and  separates  himself  from 
him,  to  his  own  destruction  and  that  of  the  woman 
whom  he  loves.  This  action  presents,  in  its  rising 
movement,  the  embarrassment  of  the  lovers  and 
their  passionate  attachment,  so  far  as  the  climax, 
which  is  introduced  by  Thekla's  words,  "Trust  them 
not  ;  they  are  traitors!  "  The  relations  of  the  lovers 
to  each  other,  up  to  the  climax,  are  made  known 
only  by  the  exalted  frame  of  mind  with  which  Max, 
in  the  first  act,  Thekla  in  the  second,  rise  above  and 
are  in  contrast  with  their  surroundings.  After  the 
climax,  follows  the  return,  in  two  great  stages,  both 
of  two  scenes,  the  separation  of  Max  from  his 
father  and  the  separation  of  Max  from  Wallenstein  ; 
after  this  the  catastrophe  :  Thekla  receives  the  an- 
nouncement of  the  death  of  her  lover,  again  in  two 
scenes.  With  the  illumination  of  two  such  dra- 
matic ideas,  the  poet  concluded  to  interlace  the  two 
actions  into  two  dramas,  which  together  formed  a 
dramatic  unit  of  ten  acts  and  a  prelude. 

In  The  Piccolomini,  the  exciting  force  is  a  double 
one,  the  meeting  of  the  generals  with  Questenberg, 
and  the  arrival  of  the  lovers  in  the  camp.  The 
chief  characters  of  the  piece  are  Max  and  Thekla  ; 
the  climax  of  the  play  lies  in  the  interview  of  these 
two,  through  which  the  separation  of  the  guileless 


206      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Max  from  his  surroundings  is  introduced.  The 
catastrophe  is  the  complete  renouncing  of  his  father 
by  Max.  The  passages  which  are  brought  into  this 
play  from  the  action  of  Wallenstein' s  Death,  are  the 
scenes  with  Questenberg,  the  interview  of  Wallen- 
stein  with  the  faithful  ones,  and  the  banquet  scene  ; 
also,  a  great  part  of  the  first,  second,  and  fourth 
acts. 

In  Wallensteiris  Death,  the  exciting  force  is  the 
rumored  capture  of  Sesina,  closely  connected  with 
the  interview  between  Wallenstein  and  Wrangel  ; 
the  climax  is  the  revolt  of  the  troops  from  Wallen- 
stein,—  farewell  of  the  cuirassiers.  But  the  catas- 
trophe is  double  ;  news  of  the  death  of  Max, 
together  with  Thekla's  flight,  and  the  murder  of 
Wallenstein.  The  scenes  interwoven  from  the  action 
of  The  Piccolomini  are  the  interview  of  Max  with 
Wallenstein  and  with  Octavio,  Thekla  over  against 
her  relatives,  and  the  separation  of  Max  from  Wal- 
lenstein, the  messenger  scene  of  the  Swedish  cap- 
tain, and  Thekla's  resolve  to  flee  ;  also  one  scene 
and  conclusion  of  the  second  act,  the  climax  of  the 
third,  the  conclusion  of  the  fourth  act. 

Now,  however,  such  an  interweaving  of  two  ac- 
tions and  two  pieces  with  each  other  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  justify,  if  the  union  thus  produced,  the  double 
drama,  did  not  itself  again  form  a  dramatic  unity. 
This  is  peculiarly  the  case  ;  the  interwoven  action 
of  the  whole  tragedy  rises  and  falls  with  a  certain 
majestic  grandeur.  Therefore,  in  The  Piccolomini,  the 
two  exciting  forces  are  closely  coupled;  the  first 


THE   CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       207 

belongs  to  the  entire  action,  the  second  to  The  Picco- 
lomini.  The  drama  has  likewise  two  climaxes  lying 
in  close  proximity,  of  which,  one  is  the  catastrophe 
of  The  Piccolomini,  the  other  the  opening  part  of 
Wallenstein  s  Death.  Again,  at  the  close  of  the  last 
drama,  there  are  two  catastrophes,  one  for  the 
lovers,  the  other  for  Wallenstein  and  the  double 
drama. 

It  is  known  that  Schiller,  during  his  elaboration 
of  the  play,  laid  the  boundaries  between  The  Picco- 
lomini  and  Wallenstein  s  Death.  The  former  embraced, 
originally,  the  first  two  acts  of  the  latter,  and  the 
separation  in  spirit  of  Max  from  Wallenstein.  This 
was,  of  course,  an  advantage  for  the  action  of  Max. 
But  with  this  arrangement,  the  scene  with  Wrangel, 
/.  e.  the  portentous  deed  of  Wallenstein,  and  besides 
this  Buttler's  apostacy  to  Octavio,  i,  e.,  the  first 
ascent  of  Wallenstein  s  Death,  and  the  first  return  of 
the  entire  drama,  fell  into  the  first  of  the  two  pieces  ; 
and  this  would  have  been  a  considerable  disadvan- 
tage ;  for  then  the  second  drama  would  have  con- 
tained, with  such  an  arrangement,  only  the  last  part 
of  the  return,  and  the  catastrophe  of  the  two  heroes, 
Wallenstein  and  Max  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  magnifi- 
cent execution,  the  tension  would  have  been  too 
much  lacking  to  this  second  half.  Schiller  con- 
cluded, therefore,  rightly,  to  make  the  division 
farther  back,  and  to  end  the  first  play  with  the  great 
conflict  scene  between  father  and  son.  By  this 
division,  TJie  Piccolornini  lost  in  compactness,  but 
Wallensteins  Death  gained  in  an  indispensable  order 


208      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

of  construction.  Let  it  be  noticed  that  Schiller 
made  this  alteration  at  the  last  hour,  and  that  he 
was  probably  governed  less  by  his  regard  for  the 
structure  of  the  parts,  than  by  regard  for  the  un- 
equal time  which  the  two  parts  would  take  for  rep- 
resentation according  to  the  original  division.  The 
action  did  not  form  itself  in  the  soul  of  the  poet, 
as  we,  following  his  thought  in  the  completed  piece, 
might  think.  He  perceived  with  the  sureness  of 
deliberation,  the  course  and  the  poetic  effect  of  the 
whole  ;  the  individual  parts  of  the  artistic  structure 
took  their  places  in  the  whole  according  to  a  certain 
natural  necessity.  What  was  conformable  to  laws, 
in  the  combination,  he  has  in  nowise  made  every- 
where so  distinct,  through  conscious  deliberation,  as 
we  are  obliged  to  do,  getting  our  notion  from  the 
completed  masterpiece.  Nevertheless  we  have  the 
right  to  point  out  what  follows  a  law,  even  where  he 
has  not  consciously  cast  it  in  a  mould,  reflecting 
upon  it  afterward  as  we  do.  For  the  entire  drama, 
Wallenstein,  in  its  division,  which  the  poet  adopted, 
partly  as  a  matter  of  course,  when  he  first  planned 
it,  and  again  for  individual  parts  at  a  later  date,  per- 
haps for  external  reasons,  is  an  entirely  complete 
and  regular  work  of  art.19 

It  is  much  to  be  regretted  that  our  theatrical 
arrangements  render  it  impossible  to  represent  the 
whole  masterpiece  at  one  performance  ;  only  in  this 
way  would  be  seen  the  beautiful  and  magnificent 
effects,  which  lie  in  the  artistic  sequence  of  parts. 
As  the  pieces  are  now  given,  the  first  is  always  at 


THE  CONSTRUCTION  OF  THE   DRAMA.       209 

the  disadvantage  of  not  having  a  complete  close  ; 
the  second,  of  having  very  numerous  presupposed 
circumstances,  and  of  its  catastrophe  demanding  too 
much  space — two  acts.  With  a  continuous  repre- 
sentation, all  this  would  come  into  right  relations. 
The  splendid  prologue,  "  The  Camp,"  the  beautiful 
pictures  of  which  one  only  wants  more  powerfully 
condensed  through  an  undivided  action,  could 
hardly  be  dispensed  with  as  an  introduction.  It  is 
conceivable  that  a  time  may  come  when  it  will  be  a 
pleasure  to  the  German  to  witness  his  greatest 
drama  in  its  entirety.  It  is  not  impracticable,  how- 
ever great  the  strain  would  be  upon  the  players. 
For  even  when  both  pieces  are  given,  one  after  the 
other,  no  role  exacts  what  would  overtax  the  powers 
of  a  strong  man.  The  spectators  of  the  present, 
also,  are,  in  the  great  majority  of  cases,  not  incapa- 
ble on  special  occasions  of  receiving  a  longer  series 
of  dramatic  effects  than  our  time  allotted  to  a  per- 
formance offers.  But,  indeed,  such  a  performance 
would  be  possible,  if  only  as  an  exception,  at  a 
great  festival  occasion,  and  if  only  in  another  audi- 
torium than  our  theaters.  For  what  exhausts  the 
physical  strength  of  both  player  and  spectator  in 
less  than  three  hours  is  the  unearthly  glare  of  the 
gaslight,  the  excessive  strain  upon  the  eyes,  which 
it  produces,  and  the  rapid  destruction  of  the  breath- 
able air,  in  spite  of  all  attempts  at  ventilation. 


CHAPTER   III. 

STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES. 

I. 

ARRANGEMENT  OF   PARTS. 

The  acts — this  short  foreign  word  has  driven  the 
German  term  into  the  background — are  divided  for 
stage  purposes  into  scenes.  The  entrance  and  exit 
of  a  person,  servants  and  the  like  being  excepted, 
begins  and  ends  the  scene.  Such  a  division  of  the 
acts  is  necessary  to  the  management,  in  order  easily 
to  supervise  the  efforts  of  each  single  role ;  and  for 
the  presentation  on  the  stage,  the  scenes  represent 
the  little  units  by  the  combination  of  which  the  acts 
are  formed.  But  the  dramatic  passages  out  of  which 
the  poet  composes  his  action,  sometimes  embrace 
more  than  one  entrance  and  exit,  or  are  bound 
together  in  a  greater  number,  by  the  continu- 
ance on  the  stage,  of  one  person.  This  passage, 
this  single  dramatic  movement,  takes  its  form 
through  the  various  stages  in  which  the  creative 
power  of  the  poet  works. 

For,  like  the  links  of  a  chain,  the  nearly  related 
images  and  ideas  interlock  themselves  during  the 
poet's  labor,  one  evoking  another  with  logical  coer- 
cion. The  single  strokes  of  the  action  thus  arrange 

210 


STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES.  211 

themselves  in  such  single  parts,  while  the  great 
outlines  of  the  action  the  poet  carries  in  his  soul. 
However  diverse  the  work  of  the  creative  power  in 
different  minds  may  be,  these  logical  and  poetical 
units  are  formed  in  every  poetic  work  by  necessity  ; 
and  anyone  who  gives  careful  attention,  may  easily 
recognize  them  in  the  completed  poem,  and  perceive 
in  individual  instances  the  greater  or  less  power, 
fervor,  poetic  fulness,  and  firm,  neat  method  of 
work. 

Such  a  passage  includes  as  much  of  a  monologue, 
of  dialogue,  of  the  entrance  and  exit  of  persons  as 
is  needed  to  represent  a  connected  series  of  poetic 
images  and  ideas,  which  somewhat  sharply  divides 
itself  from  what  precedes  and  what  follows.  These 
passages  are  of  very  unequal  length  ;  they  may  con- 
sist of  a  few  sentences,  they  may  embrace  several 
pages ;  they  may  alone  form  a  short  scene,  they 
may,  placed  in  juxtaposition,  and  provided  with  in- 
troductory words  and  a  conclusion  leading  over  to 
what  follows,  form  a  greater  complete  whole,  within 
an  act.  For  the  poet,  they  are  the  links  out  of 
which  he  forges  the  long  chain  of  the  action ;  he  is 
well  aware  of  their  intrinsic  merit  and  characteristic 
quality,  even  when  he,  with  powerful  effort  is  creat- 
ing and  welding  them,  one  immediately  after  an- 
other. 

Out  of  the  dramatic  moments,  the  poet  composes 
scenes.  This  foreign  word  is  used  by  us  with  vari- 
ous meanings.  It  denotes  to  the  director,  first,  the 
stage-room  itself,  then  the  part  of  the  action  which 


212      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

is  presented  without  change  of  scenery.  To  the 
poet,  however,  scene  means  the  union  of  several 
dramatic  moments  which  forms  a  part  of  the  action, 
carried  on  by  the  same  chief  person,  perhaps  an  en- 
tire scene,  from  the  director's  point  of  view,  at  all 
events,  a  considerable  piece  of  one.  Since  a  change 
of  scenery  is  not  always  necessary  or  desirable  at 
the  exit  of  a  leading  character,  the  scene  of  the  poet 
and  the  scene  of  the  director  do  not  always  exactly 
coincide.20  An  example  may  be  allowed  here.  The 
fourth  act  of  Mary  Stuart  is  divided  by  the  poet  into 
twelve  parts  (entrances),  separated  by  one  shifting 
of  scenery  within  the  act  into  two  director  scenes. 
It  consists  of  two  little  scenes  and  one  great  scene, 
— thus  three  dramatic  scenes.  The  first  scene,  the 
intriguers  of  the  court,  is  composed  of  two  dramatic 
moments,  ( I )  after  a  short  key  note,  which  gives 
the  tone  of  the  act,  the  despair  of  Aubespine,  (2) 
the  strife  between  Leicester  and  Burleigh.  The  sec- 
ond scene,  Mortimer's  end,  connected  with  the  pre- 
ceding by  Leicester's  remaining  on  the  stage,  (i) 
Leicester's  connecting  monologue,  (2)  interview  be- 
tween Leicester  and  Mortimer,  (3)  Mortimer's 
death.  The  third  great  scene,  the  conflict  about 
the  death  sentence,  is  more  artistically  constructed. 
It  is  a  double  scene,  similar  to  the  first  and  second, 
only  with  closer  connection,  and  consists  of  ten 
movements,  of  which  the  first  four,  the  quarrel  of 
Elizabeth  and  Leicester,  united  in  a  group,  and  the 
last  six,  the  signing  of  the  death  warrant,  stand  in 
contrast.  The  six  movements  of  the  second  half  of 


STRUCTURE   OF  SCENES.  213 

the  scene,  coincide  with  the  last  six  entrances  of  the 
act ;  the  last  of  these,  Davison  and  Burleigh,  is  the 
close  of  this  animated  passage,  and  the  transition  to 
the  fifth  act. 

It  is  not  always  easy  to  recognize  these  logical 
units  of  the  creating  spirit,  from  a  completed 
drama ;  and  now  and  then  the  critical  judgment  is 
in  doubt.  But  they  deserve  greater  attention  than 
has  so  far  been  accorded  to  them. 

It  was  said  in  the  last  section,  that  every  act 
must  be  an  organized  structure,  which  combines  its 
part  of  the  action  in  an  order,  conformable  to  a  pur- 
pose and  an  effect.  In  it,  the  interest  of  the  spec- 
tator must  be  guided  with  a  steady  hand,  and 
increased ;  it  must  have  its  climax  a  great,  strong, 
elaborate  scene.  If  it  contains  several  such  elabor- 
ate climaxes,  these  must  be  united  by  means  of 
shorter  scenes,  like  joints,  in  such  a  manner  that  the 
stronger  interest  will  always  rest  on  the  later  elabor- 
ate scene. 

Like  the  act,  every  single  scene,  transition  scene 
as  well  as  finished  scene,  must  have  an  order  of 
parts,  which  is  adapted  to  express  its  import  with 
the  highest  effect.  An  exciting  force  must  intro- 
duce the  elaborate  scene,  the  spiritual  processes  in 
it  must  be  represented  with  profusion,  in  effective 
progression,  and  the  results  of  the  same  be  indicated 
by  telling  strokes  after  its  catastrophe,  toward 
which  it  sweeps  forward,  richly  elaborated;  the  con- 
clusion must  come,  brief,  and  rapid ;  for  once  its 
purpose  attained,  the  tension  slackened,  then  every 


214      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

useless  word  is  too  much.  And  as  it  is  to  be  intro- 
duced with  a  certain  rousing  of  expectation,  so  its 
close  needs  a  slight  intensifying,  specially  a  strong 
expression  of  the  important  personalities,  at  the 
time  they  leave  the  stage.  The  so-called  exits  are 
no  unwarranted  desire  of  the  player,  however  much 
they  are  misused  by  a  crude  effort  for  effect.  The 
marked  division  at  the  end  of  the  scene,  and  the 
necessity  of  transferring  the  suspense  to  what  fol- 
lows, rather  justify  them  as  an  artifice,  specially  at 
the  close  of  an  act,  but  of  course  in  moderate  use. 

The  poet  has  frequent  occasion,  during  the  pre- 
sentation of  a  piece  on  our  stage,  to  rage  against 
the  long  intervals  which  are  caused  by  the  shifting 
of  the  scenery,  and  sometimes  by  the  useless  chang- 
ing of  costumes.  It  must  be  the  poet's  concern,  as 
much  as  possible  to  restrict  the  actor's  excuse  for 
this  practice ;  and  when  a  change  of  costume  is 
necessary,  have  regard  to  it  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
action  of  the  piece.  A  longer  interval  —  that  should 
never  be  more  than  five  minutes — rnay,  according 
to  the  nature  of  the  piece,  follow  the  second  or  third 
act.  The  acts  which  stand  together  in  closer  rela- 
tion, must  not  be  separated  by  a  pause ;  what  fol- 
lows a  pause,  must  have  the  power  to  gather  up 
forces,  and  excite  a  new  suspense.  Therefore, 
pauses  between  the  fourth  and  fifth  acts  are  most 
disadvantageous.  These  last  two  parts  of  the 
action  should  seldom  be  separated  more  markedly 
than  would  be  allowable  between  two  single  scenes. 
The  poet  must  guard  against  the  production,  in  this 


STRUCTURE  OF   SCENES.  215 

part  of  the  action,  of  closing  effects  which,  on 
account  of  the  shifting  of  scenery  hard  to  manage, 
and  the  introduction  of  new  crowds,  occasion  delay. 
But  even  the  shifting  of  scenery  within  the  limits 
of  an  act,  is  no  indifferent  matter.  For  every 
change  in  the  appearance  of  the  stage  during  an 
act,  makes  a  new,  strong  line  of  separation ;  and  the 
distraction  of  the  spectator  is  increased,  since  the 
custom  has  been  adopted  in  modern  times,  of  con- 
cealing the  process  of  changing  scenes  from  the 
spectator,  by  the  drop  curtain.  For  now  it  is 
impossible  to  tell,  except  by  the  color  of  the  cur- 
tain, whether  the  break  is  made  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  management,  or  whether  an  act  is  ended.  In 
view  of  this  inconvenience,  it  must  be  the  poet's 
zealous  care  to  make  any  change  of  scenes  in  the  act 
unnecessary ;  and  it  will  be  well  if  during  the  pro- 
cess of  composition,  he  relies  on  his  own  power  to 
achieve  everything  in  this  direction  ;  for  frequently 
a  change  of  the  scenery  seems  to  his  embarrassed 
soul  quite  inevitable,  while  in  most  cases,  by  slight 
alterations  in  the  action,  it  might  be  avoided.  But 
if  the  shifting  of  curtains  is  not  entirely  unavoid- 
able during  an  act,  care  may  yet  be  taken,  at  least 
not  to  have  it  occur  in  the  acts  which  demand  the 
greatest  elaboration,  specially  the  fourth,  where 
without  this  the  full  skill  of  the  poet  is  necessary  in 
order  to  secure  progressive  power.  Such  a  disturb- 
ing break  is  most  easily  overcome  in  the  first  half 
of  the  action.  In  the  alternation  of  finished  and 
connecting  scenes,  there  lies  a  great  effect.  By  this, 


216      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

every  part  of  the  whole  is  set  in  artistic  contrast 
with  its  surroundings ;  the  essentials  are  set  in  a 
stronger  light,  the  inner  connection  of  the  action  is 
more  intelligible  in  the  alternating  light  and  shadow. 
The  poet  must,  therefore,  carefully  watch  his  fervid 
feeling,  and  examine  with  care  what  dramatic  forces 
are  for  the  essentials  of  his  action,  what  for  acces- 
sories. He  must  restrain  his  inclination  to  depict 
fully  certain  kinds  of  characters  or  situations,  in 
case  these  are  not  of  importance  to  the  action ;  if, 
however,  he  cannot  resist  the  charm  of  this  habit,  if 
he  must  deviate  from  this  law  and  accord  to  an 
unessential  force  broader  treatment,  he  will  do  it 
with  the  understanding  that  by  special  beauty  of 
elaboration  and  finish,  he  must  atone  for  the  defect 
thus  caused  in  the  structure. 

The  subordinate  scene,  however,  whether  it  be 
the  echo  of  a  chief  scene,  or  the  preparation  for  a 
new  scene,  or  an  independent  connecting  member, 
will  always  give  the  poet  the  opportunity  to  show 
his  talent  for  the  roles,  in  the  use  of  the  greatest 
brevity.  Here  is  the  place  for  terse,  suggestive 
sketching,  which  can,  in  a  few  words,  afford  a  grati- 
fying insight  into  the  inmost  being  of  the  figures  in 
the  background. 

II. 
THE  SCENES  AND  THE  NUMBER  OF   PERSONS. 

The  freedom  in  the  construction  of  scenes  for 
our  stage,  and  the  greater  number  of  the  actors, 
make  it  apparently  so  easy  for  the  poet  to  conduct 


STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES.  217 

his  action  through  a  scene,  that  often,  in  the  new 
drama,  the  customary  result  of  an  excessive  lack 
of  restraint  is  to  be  regretted.  The  scene  becomes 
a  jumble  of  speeches  and  responses,  without  suffi- 
cient order ;  while  it  has  a  wearying  length  and 
smooth  flowing  sentences,  neither  elevation  nor 
contrasts  are  developed  with  any  power.  Of  course, 
there  is  not  a  total  lack  of  connection  in  the  scenes 
in  the  most  bewildered  work  of  the  amateur ;  for 
the  forms  are  to  such  a  degree  the  expression  of  the 
character,  that  dramatic  perception  and  feeling,  even 
though  unschooled,  is  accustomed  to  hit  what  is  the 
correct  thing,  in  many  essentials ;  but  not  always, 
and  not  every  one.  Let  the  poet,  therefore,  during 
his  work,  critically  apply  a  few  well  known  rules. 

Since  the  scene  is  a  part  of  the  drama,  set  off 
from  other  parts,  and  is  to  prepare  for  the  meaning 
of  what  follows  in  itself,  to  excite  interest,  to  place 
a  final  result  in  a  good  light,  and  then  to  lead  over 
to  what  may  follow  in  the  next  scene, — minutely 
examined,  it  will  be  found  to  contain  five  parts, 
which  correspond  to  the  five  divisions  of  the  drama. 
In  well  wrought  scenes,  these  parts  are  collectively 
effective.  For  it  is  impracticable  to  conduct  the  ac- 
tion in  a  straight  line  to  the  final  result.  A.  feels, 
wills,  demands  something.  B.  meets  him,  thinking 
with  him,  disagreeing  with  him,  opposing  him.  In 
every  case,  the  projects  of  the  one  are  checked  by 
the  other,  and  for  a  time  at  least,  turned  aside.  In 
such  scenes,  whether  they  present  a  deed,  a  battle 
of  words,  an  exhibition  of  feeling,  it  is  desirable 


218      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

that  the  climax  should  not  lie  in  a  direct  line  which 
leads  from  the  supposed  conditions  previous  to  the 
action,  to  the  final  results ;  but  that  it  indicate  the 
last  point  in  a  deviating  direction,  from  which  point 
the  return  action  falls  to  the  direct  line  again.  Let 
it  be  the  business  of  a  scene  to  render  B.  harmless 
through  A.  ;  its  proposed  result,  B's  promise  to  be 
harmless.  Beginning  of  the  scene  :  A.  entreats  B. 
to  be  no  longer  a  disturber  of  the  peace ;  if  B.  is 
already  willing  to  yield  to  this  wish,  a  longer  scene 
is  not  needed.  If  he  accepts  passively  A's  reasons, 
the  scene  moves  forward  in  a  direct  line ;  but  it  is 
in  great  danger  of  becoming  wearisome.  But  if  B. 
puts  himself  on  his  defensive,  and  persists  in  con- 
tinuing the  disturbance  or  denies  it,  then  the  dia- 
logue runs  to  a  point  where  B.  is  as  far  as  possible 
from  the  wish  of  A.  From  here,  an  approach  of 
points  of  view  begins,  the  reasons  put  forth  by  A. 
show  themselves  strongest,  till  B.  yields. 

But  since  every  scene  points  to  what  follows,  this 
pyramidal  structure  is  frequently  changed  into  the 
profile  of  a  shore-beating  wave,  with  long  ascending 
line,  and  short  falling  side, — beginning,  ascent,  final 
result. 

According  to  the  number  of  persons  they  con- 
tain, scenes  are  determined  differently,  and  are 
subject  to  varied  arrangement.  The  monologue 
gives  the  hero  of  the  modern  stage  opportunity,  in 
perfect  independence  of  an  observing  chorus,  to 
reveal  to  the  audience  his  most  secret  feeling  and 
volition.  It  might  be  supposed  that  such  confiding 


STRUCTURE  OF   SCENES.  219 

to  the  hearer  would  be  very  acceptable ;  but  it  is 
often  not  the  case.  So  great  is  the  influence  of  the 
struggle  of  each  man,  on  every  purpose  of  the 
drama,  that  every  isolation  of  an  individual  must 
have  a  special  justification.  Only  where  a  rich  inner 
life  has  been  concealed  for  a  long  time  in  the  gen- 
eral play,  does  the  auditor  tolerate  its  private  rev- 
elation. But  in  cases  where  artistic  intrigue  playing 
will  make  the  audience  a  confidant,  the  spectator 
cares  little  for  the  quiet  expression  of  an  individual ; 
he  prefers  to  gather  for  himself  the  connection  and 
the  contrasts  of  characters,  from  a  dialogue.  Mono- 
logues have  a  likeness  to  the  ancient  pathos-scene ; 
but  with  the  numerous  opportunities  which  our 
stage  offers  for  characters  to  expose  their  inner 
lives,  and  with  the  changed  purpose  of  dramatic 
effects  through  the  actor's  art,  they  are  no  neces- 
sary additions  to  the  modern  drama. 

Since  monologues  represent  a  pause  for  rest  in 
the  course  of  the  action,  and  place  the  speaker  in  a 
significant  manner  before  the  hearer,  they  need  in 
advance  of  themselves  an  excited  tension  of  feeling 
in  the  audience,  and  then  a  line  of  division  either 
before  or  after  them.  But  whether  they  open  an 
act  or  close  it,  or  are  placed  between  two  scenes  of 
commotion,  they  must  always  be  constructed  dram- 
atically. Something  presented  on  one  side,  some- 
thing on  the  other  side;  final  result,  and  indeed,  final 
result  that  wins  something  significant  for  the  action 
itself.  Let  the  two  monologues  of  Hamlet  in  the 
rising  action  be  compared.  The  second  celebrated 


220      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

soliloquy  "To  be  or  not  to  be,"  is  a  profound  reve- 
lation of  Hamlet's  soul,  but  no  advance  at  all  for 
the  action,  as  it  introduces  no  new  volition  of  the 
hero  ;  through  the  exposition  of  the  inner  struggle, 
it  only  explains  his  dilatoriness.  The  previous 
monologue,  on  the  contrary,  a  masterpiece  of  dram- 
atic emotion,  —  even  this,  the  outburst  resulting 
from  the  previous  scene,  has  as  its  foundation  a 
simple  resolution;  Hamlet  says:  (i)  "The  actor 
exhibits  so  great  earnestness  in  mere  play;  (2)  I 
sneak  along  inactive,  in  the  midst  of  the  greatest 
earnestness;  (3)  to  the  work!  I  will  institute  a 
play,  in  order  to  win  resolution  for  an  earnest  deed." 
In  this  last  sentence,  the  result  of  the  entire  preced- 
ing scene  is  at  once  concentrated,  the  effect  which 
the  interview  with  the  players  produces  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  hero,  and  on  the  course  of  the  action. 

Effective  soliloquies  have  naturally  become  fa- 
vorite passages  with  the  public.  In  Schiller's  and 
in  Goethe's  plays,  they  are  presented  with  great 
fondness  by  the  rising  generation.  Lessing  would 
hardly  have  sought  this  kind  of  dramatic  effects, 
even  if  he  had  written  more  than  Nathan  The  Wise 
in  our  iambics. 

Next  to  the  monologues,  stand  the  announce- 
ments by  messenger  in  our  drama.  As  the  former 
represent  the  lyric  element,  the  latter  stand  for  the 
epic.  They  have  been  already  discussed.  Since  it 
is  their  task  to  relieve  the  tension  already  produced 
that  they  may  be  well  received,  the  effect  which 
they  produce  on  the  counter-players  of  the  messen- 


STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES.  221 

ger,  or  perhaps  on  himself,  must  be  very  apparent. 
An  intense  counter-play  must  accompany  and  inter- 
rupt a  longer  communication,  without,  of  course, 
outdoing  it.  Schiller,  who  is  very  fond  of  these 
messenger  speeches,  gives  copious  examples  which 
serve  not  only  for  imitation  but  for  warning.  Wal- 
lenstein  alone  contains  a  whole  assortment  of  them. 
In  the  beautiful  model  speeches,  "There  is  in  human 
life,"  and  "We  stand  not  idly  waiting  for  invasion," 
the  poet  has  connected  the  highest  dramatic  sus- 
pense with  the  epic  situations.  Wallenstein's  inspi- 
ration and  prophetic  power  appear  nowhere  so 
powerful  as  in  his  narratives.  In  the  announcement 
of  the  Swede,  however,  the  dumb  play  of  the  mor- 
tally wounded  Thekla  is  in  the  strongest  contrast 
with  the  behavior  and  the  message  of  the  active 
stranger.  Moreover,  this  drama  has  other  descrip- 
tions,— for  example,  the  Bohemian  cup  and  the 
room  of  the  astrologer, — the  curtailing  or  removal 
of  which  would  be  an  advantage  on  the  stage. 

The  most  important  part  of  an  action  has  its 
place  in  the  dialogue  scenes,  specially  scenes 
between  two  persons.  The  contents  of  these  scenes, 
— something  set  forth,  something  set  forth  against  it, 
perception  against  perception,  emotion  against 
emotion,  volition  against  volition,  —  have  with  us, 
deviating  from  the  uniform  method  of  the  ancients, 
found  the  most  manifold  elaboration.  The  purpose 
of  every  colloquy  scene  is  to  bring  into  prominence 
from  the  assertions  and  counter-assertions,  a  result 
which  impels  the  action  further.  While  the  ancient 


222      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

dialogue  was  a  strife,  which  usually  exercised  no 
immediate  influence  on  the  soul  of  the  participants, 
the  modern  dialogue  understands  how  to  persuade, 
demonstrate,  bring  over  to  the  speaker's  point  of 
view.  The  arguments  of  the  hero  and  his  adversary 
are  not,  as  in  the  Greek  tragedy,  rhetorical  word- 
contests  ;  but  they  grow  out  of  the  character  and 
spirit  of  the  persons  contending  ;  and  the  hearer  is 
carefully  instructed  how  far  they  are  to  express  real 
feeling  and  conviction,  and  how  far  they  shall  mis- 
lead. 

The  aggressor  must  arrange  the  grounds  of  his 
attack  exactly  according  to  the  personal  character 
of  his  antagonist,  or  he  must  draw  his  motives  truly 
from  the  depths  of  his  own  being.  But  in  order 
that  what  has  a  purpose,  or  what  is  true,  may  be 
fully  conceived  by  the  hearer,  there  is  needed  a  cer- 
tain trend  of  speech  and  reply  on  the  stage,  not  in 
the  regular  course,  conformable  to  custom,  as  among 
the  Greeks  or  old  Spanish,  but  essentially  different 
from  the  way  in  which  we  undertake  to  convince 
any  one  in  real  life.  To  the  character  on  the 
stage,  time  is  limited  ;  he  has  no  arguments  to 
bring  forward  in  a  continuously  progressive  order  of 
effects  ;  he  has  to  explain  impressively  for  his 
hearer,  what  is  most  effective  for  the  time  and  situ- 
ation. In  reality,  such  a  conflict  of  opinions  may  be 
in  many  parts,  and  may  rest  upon  numerous  grounds 
and  opposing  grounds  ;  the  victory  may  long  hang 
doubtful  ;  possibly  an  insignificant,  subordinate  rea- 
son may  finally  determine  the  outcome  ;  but  this  is 


STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES.  223 

not,  as  a  rule,  possible  on  the  stage,  as  it  is  not 
effective. 

Therefore,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  poet  to  gather  up 
these  contrasts  in  a  few  utterances,  and  to  express 
their  inner  significance  with  continuous,  progressive 
force.  In  our  plays,  the  reasonings  of  one  strike 
like  waves  against  the  soul  of  the  other,  broken  at 
first  by  resistance,  then  rising  higher,  till,  perhaps,  at 
last  they  rise  above  the  resistance  itself.  It  happens 
according  to  an  old  law  of  composition,  that  fre- 
quently the  third  such  wave-beat  gives  the  decision ; 
for  if  the  proposition  and  counter-proposition  have 
each  made  two  excursions,  by  these  two  stages  the 
hearer  is  sufficiently  prepared  for  the  decision ;  he 
has  received  a  strong  impulse,  and  has  been  ren- 
dered capable  of  conveniently  comparing  the  weight 
of  the  reasons  with  the  strength  of  the  character  on 
which  they  are  to  work.  Such  dialogue  scenes 
have  been  finely  elaborated  with  great  attractiveness 
on  our  stage,  since  Lessing's  time.  They  correspond 
much  to  the  joy  of  the  Germans  in  a  rational  discus- 
sion of  a  matter  of  business.  Celebrated  roles  of 
our  stage  are  indebted  for  their  success  to  them 
alone,— Marinelli,  Carlos  in  Clavigo,  Wrangel  in 
Wallenstein. 

Since  the  poet  must  so  fashion  the  dialogue 
scene  that  the  progress  which  it  makes  for  the 
action  becomes  impressed  upon  the  hearer,  the 
technique  of  these  scenes  will  be  different  according 
to  the  position  in  which  they  find  the  participants, 
and  in  which  they  leave  them.  The  matter  will  be 


224      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

simplest  when  the  intruder  overcomes  the  one  whom 
he  attacks ;  then  two  or  three  approaches  and  sepa- 
rations occur,  till  the  victory  of  one,  or  if  the 
attacked  person  is  more  tractable,  there  is  a  gradual 
coming  over.  A  scene  of  such  persuasion,  of 
simple  structure,  is  the  dialogue  in  the  beginning 
of  Brutus  and  Cassius'  relations ;  Cassius  presses, 
Brutus  yields  to  his  demands.  The  dialogue  has  a 
short  introduction,  three  parts,  and  a  conclusion. 
The  middle  part  is  of  special  beauty  and  great 
finish.  Introduction,  Cassius  says,  in  effect,  "You 
seem  unfriendly  toward  me,  Brutus."  Brutus,  "  Not 
from  coldness."  The  parts:  I.  Cassius,  "  Much  is 
hoped  from  you"  (frequently  interrupted  with 
assurances  that  Brutus  can  trust  him,  and  from  cries 
without,  calling  attention  to  Caesar).  2.  "What 
is  Caesar  more  than  we  ? "  3.  "  Our  wills  shall 
make  us  free."  Conclusion,  Brutus,  "  I  will  con- 
sider it." 

But  if  the  speakers  separate  without  coming  to 
terms,  their  position  with  reference  to  each  other 
must  not  remain  unchanged  during  the  scene.  It 
is  intolerable  to  the  audience  to  perceive  such  lack 
of  progress  in  the  action.  In  such  a  case,  the  trend 
of  one  or  both  must  be  broken,  enough  so,  that  in 
another  place  in  the  action  they  apparently-  agree, 
and  after  this  point  of  apparent  agreement  again 
turn  away  from  each  other  with  energy.  The  inner 
emotions  through  which  these  changes  of  relation 
are  affected,  must  be  not  only  genuine  but  adapted 
to  produce  what  follows,  not  mere  conflicting  whims 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  225 

arranged  for  the  sake  of  a  scenic  effect  but  of  no 
service  to  the  action  or  the  characters. 

By  unconnected  talk,  it  is  possible  to  bring  into 
the  field  numerous  reasons  and  counter-reasons,  and 
to  give  the  lines  a  sharper  turn  ;  but  on  the  whole, 
the  structure  remains  in  form,  as  was  indicated  in 
the  comparison  with  a  roaring  wave ;  a  gradual 
movement  upward  to  the  climax,  result,  a  short 
close.  This  is  illustrated  in  the  great  quarrel  scene 
between  Egmont  and  Orange,  indeed  the  best 
wrought  part  of  the  drama.  It  is  composed  of  four 
parts,  before  which  there  is  an  introduction,  and 
after  which  there  is  a  conclusion.  Introduction, 
Orange  :  "The  queen  regent  will  depart."  Egmont : 
"She  will  not."  First  part,  Orange:  "And  if 
another  comes?"  Egmont:  "He  will  do  as  his 
predecessor  did."  Second  part,  Orange:  "This 
time,  he  will  seize  our  heads."  Egmont:  "That  is 
impossible."  Third  part,  Orange:  "Alba  is  under 
way;  let  us  go  into  our  province."  Egmont: 
"Then  we  are  rebels."  Here  there  is  a  turn;  from 
this  point,  Egmont  is  the  aggressor.  Fourth  part, 
Egmont:  "You  are  acting  irresponsibly."  Orange: 
"Only  with  foresight."  Orange:  "I  will  go  and 
deplore  you  as  lost."  The  last  uniting  of  these 
disputants  into  a  harmonious  spirit  forms  a  fine 
contrast  to  Egmont's  previous  violence. 

The  scenes  between  two  persons  have  received 
special  significance  in  the  new  drama,  scenes  in 
which  two  persons  seem  decidedly  to  cherish  one 
opinion,  love  scenes.  They  have  not  originated  in 


226      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  ephemeral  taste,  or  passing  tenderness  of  poets 
and  spectators,  but  through  an  original  mental 
characteristic  of  the  Germans.  Ever  since  the  ear- 
liest times,  love-making,  the  approach  of  the  young 
hero  to  a  young  maiden,  has  been  specially  charm- 
ing to  German  poetry.  It  has  been  the  ruling 
poetic  inclination  of  the  people  to  surround  the 
relations  of  lovers  before  marriage,  with  a  dignity 
and  a  nobility  of  which  the  ancient  world  knew 
nothing.  In  no  direction  has  the  contrast  of  the 
Germans  with  ancient  peoples  shown  itself  more 
markedly ;  through  all  the  art  of  the  middle  ages, 
even  to  the  present,  this  significant  feature  is  notice- 
able. Even  in  the  serious  drama,  it  prevails  with  a 
higher  justification.  This  most  attractive  and 
lovely  relation  of  all  the  earth,  is  brought  into 
connection  with  the  dark  and  awful,  as  comple- 
mentary contrast,  for  the  highest  degree  of  tragic 
effect. 

During  the  poet's  work,  indeed,  these  scenes  are 
not  the  most  convenient  part  of  his  creation  ;  and 
everyone  will  not  succeed  in  them.  It  is  not  a 
useless  work  to  compare  with  each  other  the 
greatest  love  scenes  in  our  possession,  the  three 
scenes  with  Romeo  at  the  masked  ball,  the  balcony 
scene,  before  and  after  the  marriage  night,  and 
Gretchen  in  the  garden.  In  the  first  Romeo  scene, 
the  poet  has  set  the  most  difficult  task  for  the 
actor's  art ;  in  it,  the  speech  of  the  beginning  pas- 
sion is  wonderfully  abrupt  and  brief ;  from  behind 
the  polite  play  of  words,  which  was  current  in 


STRUCTURE   OF  SCENES.  227 

Shakespeare's  time,  the  growing  feeling  appears 
only  in  lightning  flashes.  Indeed,  the  poet  per- 
ceived into  what  difficulties  a  fuller  speech  would 
plunge  him.  The  first  balcony  scene  has  always 
been  considered  a  masterpiece  of  the  poetic  art ; 
but  when  one  analyzes  the  exalted  beauty  of  its 
verses,  one  is  astonished  to  find  how  eloquently, 
and  with  what  unrestrained  enjoyment,  the  spirits 
of  the  lovers  are  able  to  sport  with  their  passionate 
feeling.  Beautiful  words,  delicate  comparisons,  are 
so  massed  that  we  sometimes  almost  feel  the  art  to 
be  artful.  For  the  third,  the  morning  scene,  the 
idea  of  the  old  minncsongs,  and  popular  songs, — the 
song  of  the  watchmen, — are  made  use  of  in  a  most 
charming  manner. 

Goethe,  also,  in  his  most  beautiful  love  scene 
has  made  poetic  use  of  popular  reminiscences ;  he 
has  composed  the  declaration  of  love,  in  his  own 
manner,  out  of  little  lyric  and  epic  moments,  which 

—  though  not  entirely  favorable  for  a  great  effect, 

—  he      interrupts    through    the    incisive    contrast, 
Martha   and    Mephistopheles.     This   circumstance, 
also,  reminds  us  that  the  dramatist  was  a  great  lyric 
poet,  in  that  Faust  retires  for  the  most  part,  and 
the  scenes  are  not  much  other  than  soliloquies  of 
Gretchcn.     But  each    of   the    three    little  parts  of 
which    the    picture    is    composed    is   of    wonderful 
beauty. 

To  the  enthusiastic  Schiller,  on  the  other  hand, 
while  he  was  writing  iambics,  success  in  this  kind 
of  scenes  was  not  accorded.  He  succeeded  best  in 


228      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  Bride  of  Messina.  But  in  William  Tell,  the  scene 
between  Rudenz  and  Bertha  is  without  life  ;  and 
even  in  Wallenstein,  when  such  a  scene  was  quite 
necessary,  he  has  through  the  absence  of  Countess 
Terzky  put  a  damper  on  it ;  Thekla  must  keep  the 
loved  one  from  the  camp  and  from  the  astrologer's 
room,  till  finally  by  herself  for  a  brief  time,  she  can 
utter  the  significant  warning. 

The  brilliant  examples  of  Shakespeare  and 
Goethe  show,  also,  the  danger  of  these  scenes.  This, 
too,  must  be  discussed.  The  utterance  of  lyric 
emotions  on  the  stage,  if  it  is  at  all  continued,  will, 
in  spite  of  all  poetic  art,  certainly  weary  the  hearer; 
it  becomes  the  dramatic  poet's  profitable  task  then, 
to  invent  a  little  occurrence  in  which  the  ardent 
feeling  of  the  loving  pair  can  express  itself  by  mu- 
tual participation  in  a  moment  of  the  action  ;  in 
this  way  he  possesses  the  dramatic  thread  on  which 
to  string  his  pearls.  The  sweet  love  chatter  which 
has  no  purpose  beyond  itself,  he  will  rightly  avoid; 
and  where  it  is  inevitable,  he  will  replace  with  the 
beauty  of  poetry  what  he,  as  a  conscientious  man, 
must  take  from  the  length  of  such  scenes. 

The  entrance  of  a  third  person  into  the  dialogue 
gives  it  a  different  character.  As  through  the  third 
man  the  stage  picture  receives  a  middle  point,  and 
the  setting  up  of  a  group,  so  the  third  man  often 
becomes,  in  import,  an  arbitrator  or  judge  before 
whom  the  two  parties  lay  the  reasons  they  have  at 
heart.  These  reasons  of  the  two  parties  are,  in 
such  a  case,  arranged  directly  for  him,  according  to 


STRUCTURE   OF   SCENES.  229 

his  disposition,  and  thereby  take  on  the  nature  of 
something  that  is  known.  The  course  of  the  scene 
becomes  slower;  between  speech  and  response,  a 
judgment  enters  which  must,  also,  present  itself  to 
the  hearer  with  some  significance.  Or  the  third 
player  is  himself  a  party  and  associate  of  one  side. 
In  this  case,  the  utterances  of  one  party  will  be- 
come more  rapid,  must  break  out  with  more  feeling, 
because  from  the  interested  hearer,  greater  intensity 
of  attention  is  exacted,  while  he  must  put  the  char- 
acter and  import  of  two  persons  in  one  scale. 

Finally,  the  third  and  most  infrequent  case  is 
that  each  of  the  three  sets  up  his  will  against  the 
other  two.  Such  scenes  are  sometimes  serviceable 
as  the  last  notes  of  a  relieved  suspense.  They  have 
but  a  brief  service  to  render;  for  the  three  speakers 
utter  themselves  really  in  monologues :  thus  the 
scene  with  Margaret  in  Richard  III.,  where  one 
character  gives  the  melody,  both  the  other  charac- 
ters in  contrasts  give  the  accompaniment.  But 
such  scenes  with  three  players  rarely  gain  signifi- 
cance in  greater  elaboration,  except  when  at  least 
one  of  the  players  goes  over  to  the  point  of  view 
of  another  in  simulated  play. 

Scenes  which  collect  more  than  three  persons 
for  active  participation  in  the  action,  the  so-called 
ensemble  scenes,  have  become  an  indispensable  ele- 
ment in  our  drama.  They  were  unknown  to  the  old 
tragedy;  a  part  of  their  service  was  replaced  by  a 
union  of  a  solo  actor  and  the  chorus.  They  do  not 
comprise,  in  the  newer  drama,  specially,  the  highest 


230      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

tragic  effects,  although  a  greater  part  of  the  most 
animated  action  is  executed  in  them.  For  it  is  a 
truth  not  sufficiently  regarded,  that  what  originates 
from  many,  or  consists  of  many  things,  excites  and 
holds  attention  less  than  what  receives  its  vividness 
or  comes  alive  from  the  soul  of  the  chief  figures. 
The  interest  in  the  dramatic  life  of  the  subordinate 
characters  is  less,  and  the  remaining  of  many  par- 
ticipants on  the  stage  may  easily  distract  the  eye 
or  the  curiosity,  rather  than  attract  and  arouse.  On 
the  whole,  the  nature  of  these  scenes  is  that  by 
good  management  on  the  part  of  the  poet,  they 
keep  the  audience  busily  occupied  and  relieve  the 
suspense  created  by  the  chief  heroes  ;  or  they  help 
to  call  forth  such  a  suspense  in  the  souls  of  the 
chief  figures.  They  have,  therefore,  the  character 
of  preparatory,  or  of  closing  scenes. 

It  hardly  need  be  mentioned  that  their  peculiar- 
ities do  not  always  become  apparent  when  more 
than  three  persons  are  on  the  stage.  For  when  a 
few  chief  roles  alone,  or  almost  exclusively,  present 
the  action,  accessory  figures  may  be  desirable  in 
considerable  number.  A  council  scene  or  parade 
scene  may  easily  collect  a  multitude  of  actors  on 
the  stage,  without  their  coming  forward  actively  in 
the  action. 

The  first  direction  for  the  construction  of  the 
ensemble  scene  is,  the  whole  company  must  be  occu- 
pied in  a  manner  characteristic  of  the  persons  and 
as  the  action  demands.  They  are  like  invited  guests, 
for  whose  mental  activity  the  poet  must,  as  invisible 


STRUCTURE  OF   SCENES.  231 

host,  have  incessant  care.  During  the  progress  of 
the  action,  he  must  perceive  clearly  the  effects  which 
the  individual  processes,  speech,  response,  produce 
on  each  of  the  participants  in  the  play. 

It  is  evident  that  one  person  must  not  express  in 
the  presence  of  another  person  on  the  stage,  what 
this  one  is  not  to  hear  ;  the  usual  device  of  an  aside 
must  be  used  only  in  extreme  cases,  and  for  a  few 
words.  But  there  is  a  greater  difficulty.  A  role 
must  also  not  express  anything  to  which  another 
person  present  is  to  give  an  answer  which,  according 
to  his  character,  is  necessary,  but  which  would  be 
useless  and  clogging  to  the  action.  In  order  to  be 
just  to  all  characters  in  a  scene  full  of  persons,  the 
poet  must  have  unrestricted  mastery  of  his  heroes, 
and  a  clear  vision  for  stage  pictures.  For  every 
individual  role  influences  the  mood  and  bearing  of 
every  other,  and  has  a  tendency,  besides,  to  limit 
the  freedom  of  expression  of  the  others.  In  such 
scenes,  therefore,  the  art  of  the  poet  will  specially 
show  itself  by  setting  the  characters  in  contrast, 
through  sharp  little  strokes.  And  it  is  well  to 
observe  that  suitably  to  occupy  all  of  the  collected 
persons  is  rendered  difficult  by  the  nature  of  our 
stage,  which  incloses  the  actors  by  its  curtains  as  in 
a  hall;  and  if  the  poet  does  not  take  definite  pre- 
cautions, as  it  is  often  impossible  to  do,  this  makes 
the  separation  of  individuals  difficult. 

But  further,  the  more  numerous  the  actors 
invited  into  a  scene,  the  less  space  individuals  have 
to  express  themselves  in  their  own  way.  The  poet 


232      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

must  also  see  to  it  that  the  respective  parts  of  the 
action  are  not  broken  up  into  fragments  by  the 
greater  number  of  participants  and  made  to  move 
forward  monotonously  in  little  waves  ;  and  as  he 
arranges  the  persons  in  groups,  he  must  like- 
wise arrange  the  action  of  the  scene  so  that  the 
movement  of  subordinate  roles  does  not  excessively 
limit  the  movement  of  the  leading  characters. 
Hence  the  value  of  the  principle  :  the  greater  the 
number  of  persons  in  a  scene,  the  stronger  must  be 
the  organization  of  the  structure.  The  chief  parts 
must  then  be  so  much  the  more  prominent,  now  the 
individual  leading  moods  in  contrast  with  the 
majority,  now  the  cooperation  of  the  whole  stand  in 
the  foreground. 

Since  with  a  greater  number  of  players,  the  indi- 
vidual is  easily  concealed,  those  places  in  the 
ensemble  scene  are  specially  difficult  in  which  the 
effect  of  any  thing  done  is  made  to  appear  upon 
individual  participants.  When  in  such  a  case,  a 
single  brief  word  thrown  in  does  not  suffice  to 
inform  the  spectator,  some  contrivance  is  needed 
which,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  separates  the 
individual  from  the  group  and  brings  him  to  the 
front.  It  is  entirely  impracticable  in  such  a  case 
suddenly  to  interrupt  the  dramatic  movement  of  the 
majority,  and  convert  all  the  others  into  silent  and 
inactive  spectators  of  the  private  revelations  of  an 
individual. 

The  more  rapidly  the  action  moves  forward  in 
concerted  play,  the  more  difficult  the  isolation  of  the 


STRUCTURE   OF  SCENES.  233 

individual  becomes.  When  the  action  has  attained 
a  certain  height  and  momentum,  it  is  not  always 
possible  even  with  the  greatest  art,  to  afford  the 
chief  actor  room  for  a  desirable  exhibition  of  his 
inmost  mood.  Hence  for  such  scenes,  the  value  of 
the  third  law  :  the  poet  will  not  have  his  persons 
say  all  that  is  characteristic  of  them,  and  that  would 
be  necessary  in  itself  for  their  rcMcs.  For  here 
arises  an  inner  opposition  between  the  requisites  of 
single  roles  and  the  advantage  of  the  whole.  Every 
person  on  the  stage  demands  a  share  for  himself  in 
the  progress  of  the  action,  so  far  as  his  associated 
relation  with  the  other  characters  of  the  scene 
allows  it.  The  poet  is  under  the  necessity,  how- 
ever, of  limiting  this  share.  Even  chief  characters 
must  sometimes  accompany  with  dumb  play,  when 
in  real  life  opportunity  would  be  given  to  engage  in 
the  conversation.  On  the  other  hand,  a  long  silence 
is  embarrassing  to  a  player,  the  subordinate  char- 
acter becomes  wearied  and  sinks  into  a  stage 
walker,  the  chief  character  feels  keenly  the  wrong 
which  is  done  to  his  part ;  far  less,  he  feels  its 
higher  necessity.  It  does  not  always  suffice  for  the 
right  aggregate  effect,  that  the  poet  have  regard  to 
the  activity  of  the  roles  not  standing  entirely  in  the 
foreground,  and  by  means  of  a  few  words,  or  by 
means  of  a  not  unknown  employment,  afford  to  the 
actor  a  certain  direction  for  his  dumb  play,  and  at 
the  same  time  a  transition  to  the  place  where  he 
shall  again  participate  in  the  action.  There  are 
extreme  cases  where  the  same  thing  is  valuable  in  a 


234      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

scene,  that  is  allowed  in  a  great  painting  showing 
numerous  figures  in  vigorous  action  and  complica- 
tion. Just  as  in  the  picture,  the  swing  of  the  chief 
lines  is  so  important  that  the  right  foreshortening  of 
an  arm  or  a  foot  must  be  sacrificed  to  it,  so  in  the 
strong  current  of  a  scene  rich  in  figures,  the  repre- 
sentation necessary  for  individual  characters  must 
be  given  up  for  the  sake  of  the  course,  and  the 
aggregate  effect  of  the  scene.  In  order  that  the 
poet  may  be  able  to  practice  attractively  such 
offered  deceptions,  his  understanding  must  be  clear 
that  in  themselves  they  are  blemishes. 

It  is  really  to  the  advantage  of  a  piece,  to  limit 
the  number  of  players  as  much  as  possible.  Every 
additional  role  makes  the  setting  more  difficult,  and 
renders  the  repetition  of  the  piece  inconvenient,  in 
case  of  the  illness  or  withdrawal  of  an  actor.  These 
external  considerations  alone  will  determine  the 
poet  to  weigh  well,  in  composing  his  ensemble 
scenes,  what  figures  are  absolutely  indispensable. 
Here  comes  an  internal  consideration  :  the  greater 
the  number  of  accessory  persons  in  a  scene,  so 
much  the  more  time  it  claims. 

The  ensemble  scenes  are,  of  course,  an  essential 
help  to  give  to  the  piece  color  and  brilliancy.  They 
can  hardly  be  spared  in  using  historical  subjects. 
But  they  must  be  used  in  such  pieces  with  modera- 
tion, because  more  than  the  others  they  make 
success  depend  on  the  skill  of  the  manager,  and 
because  in  them,  the  elaborate  representation  of  the 
inner  life  of  the  chief  figures,  a  minute  portrayal  of 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  235 

the  mental  processes,  which  claim  the  highest 
dramatic  interest,  is  much  more  difficult.  The 
second  half  of  the  piece  will  demand  them  most 
urgently,  because  here  the  activity  of  the  counter- 
players  comes  forward  more  powerfully,  tolerated, 
however,  without  injury,  only  when  in  this  division 
of  the  action,  the  ardent  sympathy  of  the  spectators 
has  already  been  immovably  fixed  with  the  chief 
characters.  Here,  too,  the  poet  must  take  care  not 
to  keep  the  inner  life  of  the  hero  too  long  con- 
cealed. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  cnsonble  scenes  of 
Shakespeare  is  the  banquet  scene  in  Pompey's  gal- 
ley, in  Antony  and  Cleopatra.  It  contains  no  chief 
part  of  the  action,  and  is  essentially  a  situation 
scene,  a  thing  not  occurring  frequently  in  the  tragic 
part  of  the  action  in  Shakespeare.  But  it  receives 
a  certain  significance,  because  it  is  at  the  close  of 
the  second  act,  and  also  stands  in  a  place  demand- 
ing eminence,  especially  in  this  piece,  in  which  the 
preceding  political  explanations  make  a  variegated 
and  animated  picture  very  desirable.  The  abundance 
of  little  characterizing  traits  which  are  united  in 
this  scene,  their  close  condensation,  above  all,  the 
technical  arrangement,  are  admirable.  The  scene 
is  introduced  by  a  short  conversation  among  serv- 
ants, as  is  frequently  the  case  in  Shakespeare,  in 
order  to  provide  for  the  setting  of  the  tables  and 
the  arrangement  of  the  furniture  on  the  stage.  The 
scene  itself  is  in  three  parts.  The  first  part  pre- 
sents the  haughty  utterances  of  the  reconciled 


236      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

.triumvirs,  and  the  pedantry  of  the  drunken  simple- 
ton, Lepidus,  to  whom  the  servants  have  already 
referred  ;  the  second,  in  terrible  contrast,  is  the 
secret  interview  of  Pompey  and  Menas  ;  the  third, 
introduced  by  the  bearing  out  of  the  drunken  Lep- 
idus, is  the  climax  of  the  wild  Bacchanalia  and 
rampant  drunkenness.  The  connecting  of  the  three 
parts,  as  Menas  draws  Pompey  aside,  as  Pompey 
again  in  the  company  of  Lepidus,  resuming,  continues 
the  carouse,  is  quite  worthy  of  notice.  Not  a  word 
in  the  whole  scene  is  without  its  use  and  signifi- 
cance ;  the  poet  perceives  every  moment  the  condi- 
tion of  the  individual  figures,  and  of  the  accessory 
persons  ;  each  takes  hold  of  the  action  effectively  ; 
for  the  manager,  as  well  as  for  the  roles,  the 
whole  is  adapted  in  a  masterly  way.  From  the 
first  news  of  Antony  across  the  Nile, —  through 
which  the  image  of  Cleopatra  is  introduced  even 
into  this  scene, — and  the  simple  remark  of  Lepidus, 
"  You  have  strange  serpents  there,"  through  which 
an  impression  is  made  on  the  mind  of  the  hearer, 
that  prepares  for  Cleopatra's  death  by  a  serpent's 
sting,  to  the  last  words  of  Antony,  "  Good  ;  give 
me  your  hand,  sir,"  in  which  the  intoxicated  man 
involuntarily  recognizes  the  superiority  of  Augustus 
Caesar,  and  even  to  the  following  drunken  speeches 
of  Pompey  and  Enobarbus,  everything  is  like  fine 
chiseled  work  on  a  firmly  articulated  metal  frame. 
A  comparison  of  this  scene  with  the  close  of  the 
banquet  act  in  The  Piccolomini,  is  instructive.  The 
internal  similarity  is  so  great  that  one  is  obliged  to 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  237 

think  Schiller  had  the  Shakespearean  performance 
before  his  eyes.  Here  also,  a  poetic  power  is  to 
be  admired,  which  can  conduct  a  great  number  of 
figures  with  absolute  certainty  ;  and  here  is  a  great 
wealth  of  significant  forces,  and  a  powerful  climax 
in  the  structure.  But  what  is  characteristic  of 
Schiller,  these  forces  are  partly  of  an  episodical 
nature  ;  the  whole  is  planned  more  broadly  and 
extensively.  This  last  has  its  justification.  For 
the  scene  stands  at  the  end,  not  of  the  second,  but 
of  the  fourth  act,  and  it  contains  an  essential  part 
of  the  action,  the  acquisition  of  the  portentous 
signature  ;  it  would  have  had  a  still  greater  place  if 
the  banquet  did  not  fill  the  entire  act.  The  con- 
nection of  parts  is  exactly  as  in  Shakespeare.21  First 
comes  an  introductory  conversation  between  serv- 
ants, which  is  spun  out  in  disproportionate  dimen- 
sions ;  the  description  of  the  drinking  cup  has  no 
right  to  take  our  attention,  because  the  cup  itself 
has  nothing  further  to  do  with  the  action,  and  the 
numerous  side  lights  which  fall  from  this  description 
upon  the  general  situation  are  no  longer  strong 
enough.  Then  comes  an  action,  also  in  three  parts: 
first,  Terzky's  endeavor  to  get  the  signature  from 
accessory  persons  ;  second,  in  sharp  contrast  with 
the  first,  the  brief  conversation  of  the  Piccolomini  ; 
third,  the  decision,  as  a  strife  of  the  drunken  Illo 
with  Max.  Here  the  union  of  the  individual  parts 
of  the  scene  is  very  careful.  Octavio,  through 
Buttler's  cautious  investigation,  quietly  calls  atten- 
tion away  from  the  excited  group  of  generals 


238      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA, 

toward  his  son  ;  through  the  search  for  the  wanting 
name,  attention  is  completely  turned  to  Max.  Here- 
upon the  intoxicated  Illo  turns  first  with  great  sig- 
nificance to  Octavio  before  his  collision  with  Max. 
The  uniting  and  separating  of  the  different  groups, 
the  bringing  into  prominence  the  Piccolomini,  the 
excited  side-play  of  the  accessory  characters,  even 
to  the  powerful  close,  are  very  beautiful. 

Besides,  we  possess  two  powerful  mass  scenes  of 
Schiller,  the  greatest  out  of  the  greatest  time  of 
our  poetic  art ;  the  Riitli  scene,  and  the  first  act 
of  Demetrius.  Both  are  models  which  the  beginner 
in  dramatic  work  may  not  imitate,  but  may  study 
carefully,  in  their  sublime  beauty.  Whatever  must 
be  said  against  the  dramatic  construction  of  William 
Tell,  upon  single  scenes  there  rests  a  charm,  which 
continually  carries  one  away  with  new  admiration. 
In  the  Riitli  scene,  the  dramatic  movement  is  a 
moderately  restrained  one,  the  execution  broad, 
splendid,  full  of  beautiful  local  color.  First,  there  is 
an  introduction,  the  mood.  It  consists  of  three 
parts :  arrival  of  the  under  forester,  interview  of 
Melchthal  and  Stauffacher,  greeting  of  the  cantons. 
Let  it  be  noted  that  the  poet  has  avoided  wearying 
by  a  triple  emphasizing  of  the  entrance  of  the  three 
cantons.  Two  chief  figures  here  bring  themselves 
into  powerful  contrast  with  the  subordinate  figures, 
and  form  a  little  climax  for  the  introduction ;  and 
distraction  through  several  forces  of  equal  impulse, 
is  avoided.  With  the  entrance  of  the  Urians,  through 
whose  horn  the  descent  from  the  mountain,  and  the 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  239 

discourse  of  those  present  is  sufficiently  emphasized, 
the  action  begins.  This  action  runs  along  in  five 
parts.  First,  appointment  for  public  meeting,  with 
short  speeches  and  hearty  participation  of  the  sub- 
ordinate persons ;  second,  after  this,  Stauffacher's 
magnificent  representation  of  the  nature  and  aim  of 
the  confederation ;  third,  after  this  powerful  address 
of  the  individual,  excited  conflict  of  opinions  and 
parties  concerning  the  position  of  the  confederation 
with  reference  to  the  emperor ;  fourth,  high  degree 
of  opposition,  even  to  an  outbreaking  strife  over  the 
means  of  release  from  the  despotism  of  the  gov- 
ernors, and  disagreement  over  the  conclusions. 
Finally,  fifth,  the  solemn  oath.  After  such  a  con- 
clusion of  the  action,  there  is  the  dying  away  of  the 
mood  which  takes  its  tone  from  the  surrounding 
nature,  and  the  rising  sun.  With  this  rich  organiza- 
tion, the  beauty  in  the  relations  of  the  single  parts 
is  especially  attractive.  The  middle  point  of  this 
whole  group  of  dramatic  incidents  or  forces, 
Stauffacher's  address,  comes  out  as  climax ;  after 
this  as  contrast,  the  restless  commotion  in  the 
masses,  the  dawning  satisfaction,  and  the  lofty 
exaltation.  Not  less  beautiful  is  the  treatment 
of  the  numerous  accessory  figures,  the  independent 
seizing  upon  the  action  by  single  little  roles,  which 
in  their  significance  for  the  scene  stand  near  each 
other  with  a  certain  republican  equality  of  justi- 
fication. 

The  greatest  model  for  political  action  is   the 
opening  scene  in  Demetrius,  the    Polish  parliament. 


240      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  subject  of  this  drama  makes  the  communication 
of  many  presupposed  conditions  necessary ;  the  pe- 
culiar adventures  of  the  boy,  Demetrius,  demanded  a 
vigorous  use  of  peculiar  colors,  in  order  to  bring 
that  strange  world  poetically  near.  Schiller,  with 
the  bold  majesty  peculiar  to  himself,  made  the  epic 
narrative  the  center  of  a  richly  adorned  spectacular 
scene,  and  surrounded  the  long  recital  of  the  indi- 
vidual, with  the  impassioned  movements  of  the 
masses.  After  a  short  introduction  follows,  with  the 
entrance  of  Demetrius,  a  scene  in  four  parts,  ( I )  the 
narrative  of  Demetrius,  (2)  the  short,  condensed 
repetition  of  the  same  by  the  archbishop,  and  the 
first  waves  which  are  thereby  excited  in  the  gather- 
ing, (3)  the  entreaty  of  Demetrius  for  support,  and 
the  increase  of  the  agitation,  (4)  counter  argument 
and  protest  of  Sapieha.  The  scene  ends  with 
tumult  and  a  sudden  breaking  off.  By  means  of  a 
slight  dramatic  force,  it  is  connected  with  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  between  Demetrius  and  the  king. 
The  excitement  of  the  subordinate  characters  is 
brief  but  violent,  the  leaders  of  opinion  few  ;  except 
Demetrius,  there  is  only  one  raising  strong  opposi- 
tion, from  all  the  mass.  It  is  perceived  and  felt 
that  the  masses  have  been  given  their  mood  in  ad- 
vance ;  the  narrative  of  Demetrius,  in  its  elegant 
elaboration  forms  the  chief  part  of  the  scene,  as  was 
befitting  for  the  first  act. 

Goethe  has  left  us  no  mass  scene  of  great  dram- 
atic effect  unless  we  are  to  consider  some  short 
scenes  in  Gotz  as  such.  The  populace  scenes  in 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  241 

Egmont  lack  in  powerful  commotion ;  the  beautiful 
promenade  in  Faust  is  composed  of  little  dramatic 
pictures;  the  student  scene  in  Auerbach's  cellar  pro- 
poses no  tragic  effect,  and  presents  to  the  actor  of 
Faust,  the  disadvantage  that  it  leaves  him  idle,  un- 
occupied on  the  stage. 

The  action  scenes  in  which  great  masses  work, 
demand  the  special  support  of  the  manager.  If  our 
stages  have  already,  in  the  chorus  personnel  of  the 
opera,  a  tolerable  number  of  players,  and  these  are 
accustomed  to  render  service  as  stage-walkers,  yet 
the  number  of  persons  who  can  be  collected  on  the 
stage  is  often  so  small  as  to  be  lost  sight  of,  when 
compared  with  the  multitude  which  in  real  life  par- 
ticipate in  a  populace  scene,  in  a  fight,  in  a  great 
uproar. 

The  auditor,  therefore,  easily  feels  the  empti- 
ness and  scantiness  as  he  sits  before  the  little  crowd 
that  is  led  in.  It  is  also  a  disadvantage  that  the 
modern  stage  is  little  adapted  to  the  disposition  of 
great  masses.  Now,  of  course,  the  external  arrange- 
ment of  such  scenes  is  for  the  most  part  in  the 
hands  of  the  manager ;  but  it  is  the  poet's  task 
through  his  art,  to  make  it  easy  for  the  manager  to 
produce  the  appearance  of  a  lively  multitude  on  the 
stage. 

Since  the  entrance  and  exit  of  a  great  number  of 
persons  requires  considerable  time  and  distracts 
attention,  this  must  be  attracted  and  retained  by 
suggestive  little  contrivances,  and  through  the  dis- 
tribution of  the  masses  in  groups. 


242      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  space  of  the  stage  must  be  so  arranged,  that 
the  comparatively  small  number  of  really  available 
players  can  not  be  overlooked, — by  shifting  side- 
scenes,  good  perspective,  an  arrangement  along  the 
sides  that  shall  suggest  to  the  fancy  greater  invisible 
multitudes  which  make  themselves  noticeable  by 
signs  and  calls  to  each  other  behind  the  scenes. 

Brilliant  spectacular  pageants,  such  as  Iffland 
arranged  for  The  Maid  of  Orleans,  the  composer  of 
a  tragedy  will  deny  himself  with  right  ;  he  will 
avoid  as  much  as  possible,  the  opportunity  for 
this. 

On  the  other  hand,  mass  effects  in  which  the 
multitude  surges  in  violent  commotion,  populace- 
scenes,  great  council  assemblies,  camps,  battles,  are 
sometimes  desirable. 

For  populace  scenes,  the  beautiful  treatment  of 
Shakespeare  has  become  a  model  often  patterned 
after, — short,  forcible  speeches  of  individual  figures, 
almost  always  in  prose,  interrupting  and  enlivening 
cries  of  the  crowd,  which  receives  its  incitement 
from  individual  leaders.  By  means  of  a  populace 
scene  on  the  stage,  other  effects  may  be  produced, 
not  the  highest  dramatic  effects,  but  yet  significant, 
which  till  the  present  time  have  been  little  esteemed 
by  our  poets.  Since  we  should  not  give  up  verse 
in  populace  scenes,  another  treatment  of  the 
crowd  is  offered  than  that  which  Shakespeare 
loved.  Now  the  introduction  of  the  old  chorus 
is  impossible.  The  new  animation  which  Schiller 
attempted,  dare  not  find  imitation,  in  spite  of  the 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  243 

fulness  of  poetic  beauty  which  is  so  enchanting 
in  the  choruses  of  the  Bride  of  Messina.  But 
between  the  chief  actors  and  a  great  number  of 
subordinate  actors,  there  is  still  another,  dramatic, 
animated,  concerted  play  conceivable,  which  con- 
nects the  leader  with  the  multitude  as  well  as  places 
him  over  against  it.  Not  only  short  cries,  but  also 
speeches  which  require  several  verses,  receive  an 
increased  power  through  the  concert  recitation  of 
several  with  well  practiced  inflection  and  in  meas- 
ured time.  With  the  multitude  introduced  in  this 
way,  the  poet  will  be  put  in  a  position  to  give  it  a 
more  worthy  share  in  the  action  ;  in  the  change 
from  single  voices  to  three,  or  four,  and  to  the 
whole  together,  between  the  clear  tenor  and  power- 
ful bass,  he  will  be  able  to  produce  numerous 
shades,  modulations,  and  colors.  With  this  concert 
speech  of  great  masses,  he  must  take  care  that  the 
meaning  of  the  sentence,  and  the  weight  and  energy 
of  the  expression  correspond  ;  that  the  words  are 
easily  understood  and  without  discord;  that  the 
individual  parts  of  the  sentence  form  a  pleasing 
contrast. 

It  is  not  true  that  this  treatment  puts  on  the 
stage  an  artificial  instead  of  a  varied  and  natural 
movement ;  for  the  usual  manner  of  arranging  pop- 
ulace scenes  is  an  accepted  artistic  one,  which 
transforms  the  course  of  the  action  according  to  a 
scheme.  The  way  proposed  here  is  only  more 
effective.  In  making  use  of  it,  the  poet  may  con- 
ceal his  art,  and  by  alternating  in  the  use  of  the 


244      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

concert  speech  and  counter-speech,  produce  variety. 
The  sonorous  speech  in  many  voices  is  adapted  not 
only  to  animated  quarrels  and  discussions,  it  is 
available  for  every  mood  which  effervesces  in  a 
popular  tumult.  On  our  stage  up  to  the  present 
time,  the  practice  of  concert  speech  has  been  unac- 
countably neglected ;  it  is  often  only  an  unintelli- 
gible scream.  The  poet  will  do  well,  therefore,  to 
indicate  specifically  in  the  stage  copies  of  his  plays, 
how  the  voice  groups  are  to  be  divided.  In  order 
to  indicate  this  properly,  he  must  have  first  felt  the 
effects  distinctly  in  advance. 

Battle  scenes  are  in  bad  repute  on  the  German 
stage,  and  are  avoided  by  the  poet  with  foresight. 
The  reason  is,  again,  that  our  theaters  do  such 
things  badly.  Shakespeare  has  an  undeniable  fond- 
ness for  martial  movements  of  masses.  He  has  not 
at  all  lessened  them  in  his  later  pieces ;  and  since 
he  occasionally  speaks  with  little  respect  of  the 
means  by  which  fights  are  represented  in  his  thea- 
ter, one  is  justified  in  believing  that  he  would  will- 
ingly have  kept  away  from  them  if  his  audiences 
had  not  liked  them  so  well.  But  upon  such  a 
martial-spirited  people,  who  passionately  cultivated 
all  manner  of  physical  exercise,  such  an  impression 
was  possible  only  when  in  these  scenes  a  certain  art 
and  technique  were  evident,  and  when  the  conven- 
tionalities of  the  stage  did  not  make  them  deplor- 
able. Scenes  like  the  fight  of  Coriolanus  and 
Aufidius,  Macbeth  and  Macduff,  the  camp  scenes 
in  Richard  III.  and  Julius  Casar,  have  such  weight 


STRUCTURE  OF  SCENES.  245 

and  significance  that  it  is  evident  with  what  confi- 
dence Shakespeare  trusted  in  their  effects.  In  more 
recent  times,  on  the  English  stage,  these  martial 
scenes  have  been  embellished  with  a  profusion  of 
accessories,  and  their  effects  wonderfully  enhanced  ; 
the  audience  has  been  only  too  much  occupied  with 
them.  If  in  Germany  there  is  too  little  of  this 
occurring,  this  negligence  can  afford  the  poet  no 
grounds  to  keep  himself  anxiously  free  from  battle 
scenes.  There  are  accessory  effects  which  can 
render  him  acceptable  service.  He  must  take  a 
little  pains,  himself,  to  find  out  how  they  may  be 
best  arranged,  and  see  to  it  that  the  stage  does  its 
duty. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE   CHARACTERS. 

I. 

THE   PEOPLE   AND   POETS. 

The  fashioning  of  the  dramatic  characters, 
among  the  Germanic  peoples,  shows  more  distinctly 
than  the  construction  of  the  dramatic  action  the 
progress  which  the  human  race  has  made  since  the 
appearance  of  dramatic  art  among  the  Greeks.  Not 
only  the  natural  disposition  of  our  people,  but  its 
altitude  above  the  historic  periods  of  a  world  spread 
out  to  full  view,  and  the  consequent  development  of 
an  historic  sense,  declare  and  explain  this  difference. 
Since  it  has  been  the  task  of  the  new  drama,  by 
means  of  the  poetic  and  histrionic  arts  to  represent 
upon  the  stage  the  appearance  of  an  individual  life, 
even  to  illusion,  the  delineation  of  character  has 
won  a  significance  for  the  art,  which  was  unknown 
to  the  ancient  world. 

The  poetic  power  of  the  dramatic  poet  displays 
itself  most  immediately  in  the  invention  of  dra- 
matic characters.  In  the  construction  of  the  action, 
in  the  adaptation  to  the  stage,  other  characteristics 
help  him  :  a  true  culture,  manly  traits  of  character, 
good  training,  experience  ;  but  when  the  capability 

246 


THE   CHARACTERS.  247 

for  a  sharp  defining  of  characters  is  small,  a  work, 
perhaps  correct  from  the  point  of  view  of  the  stage, 
may  be  created,  but  never  one  of  real  significance. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  peculiar  power  of  invention 
makes  the  individual  roles  attractive,  a  good  hope 
may  be  cherished,  even  if  the  cooperation  of  the 
figures  for  a  collective  picture  is  quite  lacking. 
Right  here,  then,  in  this  part  of  artistic  creation, 
less  help  is  gained  from  instruction  than  in  any 
other  part.  The  poetics  of  the  Greek  thinkers,  as 
we  have  received  it,  contains  only  a  few  lines  on 
the  characters.  In  our  time,  too,  the  technique  is 
able  to  set  up  nothing  but  a  few  bare  directions,  which 
do  not  essentially  advance  the  creating  poet.  What 
the  rules  for  work  can  give,  the  poet  carries,  on  the 
whole,  securely  in  his  own  breast  ;  and  what  he 
does  not  possess,  they  are  not  able  to  give. 

The  poet's  characterization  rests  on  the  old  pe- 
culiarity of  man,  to  perceive  in  every  living  being 
a  complete  personality,  in  which  a  soul  like  that  of 
the  observer's  is  supposed  as  animating  principle  ; 
and  beyond  this,  what  is  peculiar  to  this  being, 
what  is  characteristic  of  it,  is  received  as  affording 
enjoyment.  With  this  tendency,  long  before  his 
power  of  poetic  creation  becomes  an  art,  man  trans- 
forms all  that  surrounds  him  into  personalities,  to 
which,  with  busied  imagination,  he  attributes  much 
of  the  character  peculiar  to  human  beings.  In 
thunder  and  lightning,  he  perceives  the  form  of  a 
god,  traversing  the  concave  heaven  in  a  war  chariot, 
and  scattering  fiery  darts  ;  the  clouds  are  changed 


248      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

into  celestial  cows  and  sheep,  from  which  a  divine 
figure  pours  the  milk  upon  the  earth.  Also  the 
creatures  which  inhabit  the  earth  with  man,  he  per- 
ceives as  possessed  with  a  personality  similar  to  that 
of  man  himself  —  thus  bears,  foxes,  wolves.  Every 
one  of  us  imputes  to  the  dog  and  to  the  cat  ideas 
and  emotions  which  are  familiar  to  us  ;  and  only 
because  such  a  conception  is  everywhere  a  necessity 
and  a  pleasure,  are  animals  so  domesticated.  This 
tendency  to  personify  expresses  itself  incessantly: 
in  intercourse  with  our  fellow  men,  daily  ;  at  our 
first  meeting  with  a  stranger ;  from  the  few  vital 
expressions  which  come  to  us  from  him  ;  from  sin- 
gle words,  from  the  tone  of  his  voice,  from  the 
expression  of  his  countenance,  we  form  the  picture 
of  his  complete  personality  ;  we  do  this  especially 
by  completing  with  lightning  rapidity  the  imperfect 
impressions,  from  the  stock  of  our  phantasy,  ac- 
cording to  their  similarity  with  previous  impres- 
sions, or  what  has  been  previously  observed.  Later 
observation  of  the  same  person  may  modify  the 
image  which  has  fallen  upon  the  soul,  may  give  it 
a  richer  and  deeper  development  ;  but  already,  at 
the  first  impression,  however  small  the  number  of 
characteristic  traits  may  be,  we  perceive  these  as  a 
logical,  strictly  computed  whole,  in  which  we  rec- 
ognize what  is  peculiar  to  this  man,  upon  the  back- 
ground of  what  is  common  to  all  men.  This 
creating  of  a  form  is  common  to  all  men,  to  all 
times  ;  it  works  in  every  one  of  us  with  the  neces- 
sity and  the  rapidity  of  an  original  power ;  it  is  to 


THE   CHARACTERS.  249 

each  one  a  stronger  or  a  weaker  capability ;  it  is  to 
each  a  rapturous  necessity. 

Upon  this  fact  rests  the  efficacy  of  dramatic 
characterization.  The  inventive  power  of  the  poet 
produces  the  artistic  appearance  of  a  rich  individual 
life,  because  he  has  so  put  together  a  few  vital  ex- 
pressions of  a  person  —  comparatively  few  —  that 
the  person,  understood  and  felt  by  him  as  a  unity, 
is  intelligible  to  the  actor  and  to  the  spectator  as  a 
characteristic  being.  Even  in  the  case  of  the  chief 
heroes  of  a  drama,  the  number  of  vital  expressions 
which  the  poet,  limited  in  time  and  space,  is  able  to 
give,  the  aggregate  number  of  characterizing  traits, 
is  much  too  small ;  while  in  the  case  of  accessory 
figures,  perhaps  two  or  three  indications,  a  few 
words,  must  produce  the  appearance  of  an  inde- 
pendent, highly  characteristic  life.  How  is  this 
possible?  For  this  reason  :  the  poet  understands 
the  secret  of  suggesting  ;  of  inciting  the  hearer, 
through  his  work,  to  follow  the  poet's  processes  and 
create  after  him.  For  the  power  to  understand  and 
enjoy  a  character  is  attained  only  by  the  self-activ- 
ity of  the  receptive  spectator,  meeting  the  creating 
artist  helpfully  and  vigorously.  What  the  poet  and 
the  actor  actually  give  is,  in  itself,  only  single 
strokes  ;  but  out  of  these  grows  an  apparently 
richly  gotten-up  picture,  in  which  we  divine  and 
suppose  a  fulness  of  characteristic  life,  because  the 
poet  and  the  actor  compel  the  excited  imagination 
of  the  hearer  to  cooperate  with  them,  creating  for 
itself. 


250      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  method  of  fashioning  characters,  by  differ- 
ent poets,  is  of  the  greatest  variety.  It  varies  with 
different  times  and  different  peoples.  The  method 
of  the  Latin  races  is  very  different  from  that  of  the 
Germanic  races.  With  the  early  Germans,  the 
enjoyment  has  always,  from  the  first,  been  greater 
in  the  invention  of  characterizing  details  ;'  with  the 
Latins,  the  joy  has  been  greater  in  compactly  unit- 
ing, for  a  special  purpose,  the  men  represented,  in 
an  artistically  interwoven  action.  The  modern 
German  reaches  more  deeply  into  his  artistic  pro- 
duct;  he  seeks  to  put  upon  exhibition  a  richer 
inner  life ;  what  is  peculiar,  indeed  what  is  specially 
rare,  has  the  greatest  charm  for  him.  But  the 
Latin  perceives  what  is  restricted  to  the  individual, 
specially  from  the  point  of  view  of  convenience 
and  adaptability  to  purpose ;  he  makes  society  the 
center,  not  the  inner  life  of  the  hero,  as  the  German 
does  ;  he  is  glad  to  set  over  against  each  other,  per- 
sons fully  developed,  often  with  only  hasty  outlines 
of  character.  It  is  their  diverse  tendencies  that 
make  them  interesting  to  each  other  in  the  counter- 
play.  Where  the  special  task  is  the  accurate  repre- 
sentation of  a  character,  as  in  Moliere,  and  where 
characteristic  details  elicit  special  admiration,  these 
characters,  the  miser  and  the  hypocrite,  are  inwardly 
most  nearly  complete ;  they  are  exhibited  with  a 
monotony  at  last  wearisome,  in  different  social  rela- 
tions ;  in  spite  of  the  excellence  in  delineation  on 
our  stage,  they  become  more  and  more  foreign  to 
us,  because  the  highest  dramatic  life  is  lacking  to 


THE   CHARACTERS.  251 

them — the  processes  of  coming  into  being,  the 
growth  of  character.  We  prefer  to  recognize  on 
the  stage  how  one  becomes  a  miser,  rather  than  see 
how  he  is  one. 

What  fills  the  soul  of  a  German,  then,  and  makes 
a  subject  of  value,  what  stimulates  to  creative  activ- 
ity, is  especially  the  peculiar  transformations  of 
character  in  the  chief  persons ;  the  characters  blos- 
som first  in  his  creating  mind;  for  these  he  invents 
the  action  ;  from  them  beams  the  color,  the  warmth, 
the  light,  upon  the  accessory  figures :  the  Latin  has 
been  more  strongly  attracted  by  the  combinations 
of  the  action,  the  subordination  of  individual  ele- 
ments to  the  dominion  of  the  whole,  suspense, 
intrigue.  This  contrast  is  old,  but  it  comes  down 
to  the  present  time.  It  is  more  difficult  for  the 
German  to  construct  an  action  for  his  clearly  con- 
ceived characters ;  for  the  Latin,  the  threads  inter- 
lace easily  and  spiritedly  into  an  artistic  web.  This 
peculiarity  occasions  a  difference  in  the  productive- 
ness and  the  value  of  the  dramas.  The  literature  of 
the  Latins  has  little  that  can  be  compared  with  the 
highest  products  of  the  German  mind ;  but  fre- 
quently, in  the  condition  of  our  people,  no  piece 
available  for  the  stage  comes  from  their  weaker  tal- 
ents. Single  scenes,  single  characters,  command 
attention  and  admiration;  but  they  lack,  as  a  whole, 
in  neat  elaboration  and  power  to  excite  feeling. 
Mediocrity  succeeds  better  outside  of  Germany ; 
and  where  neither  the  poetic  idea  nor  the  characters 
lay  claim  to  poetic  value,  the  shrewd  invention  of 


252      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

intrigue,  the  artistic  combination  of  persons  for  ani- 
mated life,  is  found  entertaining.  While  with  the 
Germans,  that  which  is  most  highly  dramatic, —  the 
working  out  of  the  perceptions  and  feelings  in  the 
soul,  into  a  deed, —  comes  to  light  more  seldom, 
yet  once  in  a  while,  in  irresistible  power  and  beauty 
in  art,  with  the  Latins  is  found  more  frequently  and 
more  productive  the  second  characteristic  of  dra- 
matic creation, —  the  invention  of  the  counter-play, 
the  effective  representation  of  the  conflict  which 
the  environment  of  the  hero  wages  against  his 
weaknesses. 

But  further,  in  the  work  of  every  individual  poet, 
the  method  of  characterization  is  diverse ;  very  dif- 
ferent is  the  wealth  of  figures,  and  the  pains  and 
distinctness  with  which  their  essential  nature  is  pre- 
sented to  the  hearer.  Here  Shakespeare  is  the 
deepest  and  richest  of  creative  geniuses,  not  without 
a  peculiarity,  however,  which  often  challenges  our 
admiration.  We  are  inclined  to  accept  it,  and  we 
learn  it  from  many  sources,  that  his  audience  did 
not  consist  entirely  of  the  most  intelligent  and  cul- 
tured people  of  old  England ;  we  are  also  justified 
in  supposing  that  he  would  give  to  his  characters  a 
simple  texture,  and  accurately  expose  their  relation 
to  the  idea  of  the  drama,  from  all  sides.  This  does 
not  always  occur.  The  spectator,  in  the  case  of 
Shakespeare's  heroes,  does  not  remain  in  uncer- 
tainty as  to  the  chief  motive  of  their  actions  ;  indeed 
the  full  power  of  his  poetic  greatness  is  evident  just 
in  this,  that  he  understands,  as  no  other  poet. does, 


THE   CHARACTERS.  253 

how  to  express  the  mental  processes  of  the  chief 
characters,  from  the  first  rising  perception  to  the 
climax  of  passion,  with  extremely  affecting  power 
and  truth.  The  propelling  counter-players  in  his 
dramas,  lago  and  Shylock,  for  instance,  do  not  fail 
to  make  the  spectator  a  confidant  in  what  they 
wish.  And  it  may  be  well  said  that  the  characters 
of  Shakespeare,  whose  passion  beats  in  the  highest 
waves,  allow  the  spectator  to  look  into  the  depths 
of  their  hearts,  more  than  the  characters  of  any 
other  poet.  But  this  depth  is  sometimes  unfathom- 
able to  the  eyes  of  the  histrionic  artist,  as  well  as 
to  the  sight  of  the  audience ;  and  his  characters  are 
by  no  means  always  so  transparent  and  simple  as 
they  appear  at  a  casual  glance.  Indeed,  many  of 
them  have  something  about  them  peculiarly  enig- 
matical, and  difficult  to  understand,  which  perpetu- 
ally allures  toward  an  interpretation,  but  is  never 
entirely  comprehended. 

Not  only  such  persons  as  Hamlet,  Richard'  III., 
lago,  in  whom  peculiar  thoughtfulncss,  or  an  essen- 
tial characteristic  not  easily  understood,  and  single 
real  or  apparent  contradictions  are  striking,  come 
into  this  list,  but  such  as,  with  superficial  observa- 
tion, stride  away  down  the  straight  street,  stage 
fashion. 

Let  the  judgments  be  tested  which  for  a  hun- 
dred years  have  been  pronounced  in  Germany  on 
the  characters  in  Julius  C&sar,  and  the  glad  approval 
with  which  our  contemporaries  accept  the  noble 
effects  of  this  piece.  To  the  warm-hearted  youth, 


254       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Brutus  is  the  noble,  patriotic  hero.  An  honest 
commentator  sees  in  Caesar,  the  great,  the  immova- 
ble character,  superior  to  all;  a  politician  by  profes- 
sion rejoices  in  the  ironical,  inconsiderate  severity 
with  which,  from  the  introduction  forward,  the  poet 
has  treated  Brutus  and  Cassius  as  impractical  fools, 
and  their  conspiracy  as  a  silly  venture  of  incapable 
aristocrats.  The  actor  of  judgment,  at  length,  finds 
in  the  same  Caesar  whom  his  commentator  has  held 
up  to  him  as  a  pattern  of  the  possessor  of  power,  a 
hero  inwardly  wounded  to  death,  a  soul  in  which  the 
illusion  of  greatness  has  devoured  the  very  joints 
and  marrow.  Who  is  right  ?  Each  of  them.  And 
yet  each  of  them  has  the  notion  that  the  characters 
are  not  entirely  a  mixture  of  incongruous  elements, 
artfully  composed,  or  in  any  way  untrue.  Each  of 
them  feels  distinctly  that  they  are  excellently 
created,  live  on  the  stage  most  effectively ;  and  the 
actor  himself  feels  this  most  strongly,  even  if  the 
secret  of  Shakespeare's  poetic  power  should  not  be 
entirely  understood. 

Shakespeare's  art  of  character  building  repre- 
sents to  an  unusual  extent  and  perfection,  what  is 
peculiar  to  the  Germanic  method  of  creation,  as 
opposed  to  that  of  the  old  world,  and  that  of  those 
peoples  of  culture,  not  pervaded  with  German  life. 
What  is  German  is  the  fulness,  and  affectionate 
fervor  which  forms  every  single  figure  carefully, 
accurately,  according  to  the  needs  of  each  individual 
masterpiece  of  art,  but  considers  the  entire  life  of 
the  figure,  lying  outside  of  the  piece,  and  seeks 


THE   CHARACTERS.  255 

to  seize  upon  its  peculiarity.  While  the  German 
conveniently  casts  upon  the  pictures  of  reality,  the 
variegated  threads  spun  by  his  teeming  fancy,  he 
conceives  the  real  foundations  of  his  characters,  the 
actual  counterpart,  with  philanthropic  regard,  and 
with  the  most  exact  understanding  of  its  combined 
contents.  This  thoughtfulness,  this  fond  devotion 
to  the  individual,  and  again  the  perfect  freedom 
which  has  intercourse,  for  a  purpose,  with  this  image 
as  with  an  esteemed  friend,  have,  since  the  old 
times,  given  a  peculiarly  rich  import  to  the  success- 
ful figures  in  German  dramatic  art  ;  therefore,  there 
is  in  them,  a  wealth  of  single  traits,  a  spiritual 
charm,  a  many-sidedness,  through  which  the  com- 
pactness, necessary  to  dramatic  characters,  is  not 
destroyed,  but  in  its  effects,  is  greatly  enhanced. 

The  Brutus  of  Shakespeare  is  a  high-minded 
gentleman,  but  he  has  been  reared  an  aristocrat  ;  he 
is  accustomed  to  read  and  to  think  ;  he  has  the 
enthusiasm  to  venture  great  things,  but  not  the 
circumspection  and  prudence  to  put  them  through. 
Caesar  is  a  majestic  hero  who  has  passed  a  victor- 
ious, a  great  life,  and  who  has  proved  his  own 
excellence  in  a  time  of  selfishness  and  pretentious 
weakness ;  but  with  the  lofty  position,  which  he  has 
given  himself  above  the  heads  of  his  contempo- 
raries, ambition  has  come  upon  him,  simulation 
and  secret  fear.  The  fearless  man  who  has  risked 
his  life  a  hundred  times  and  feared  nothing  but  the 
appearance  of  being  afraid,  is  secretly  superstitious, 
variable,  exposed  to  the  influence  of  weaker  men. 


256      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  poet  does  not  hide  this ;  he  lets  his  characters, 
in  every  place,  say  exactly  what  occurs  to  them  in 
such  a  business  ;  but  he  treats  their  nature  as  in 
itself  intelligible,  and  explains  nothing  ;  not  because 
it  has  become  distinct  to  him  through  cool  calcula- 
tion, but  because  it  has  arisen  with  a  natural  force 
from  all  the  presupposed  conditions. 

To  the  admirer  of  Shakespeare,  this  greatness  of 
his  poetical  vision  presents  here  and  there  diffi- 
culties. In  the  first  part  of  Jjilius  Caesar,  Casca 
comes  prominently  into  the  foreground  ;  in  the 
following  action  of  the  piece,  not  a  word  is  heard 
about  him;  he  and  the  other  conspirators  are 
apparently  of  less  consequence  to  Shakespeare  than 
to  the  audience.  But  he  who  observes  more  care- 
fully, sees  the  reason  for  this,  and  perceives  that 
this  figure  which  he  made  so  benevolently  promi- 
nent at  first,  the  poet  throws  aside  immediately 
without  ado.  Indeed,  he  indicates  this  in  the  judg- 
ment which,  by  way  of  exception  this  time,  Brutus 
and  Cassius  let  fall  concerning  Casca.  To  him  and 
to  the  piece,  the  man  is  an  insignificant  tool. 

In  many  subordinate  roles,  the  great  poet  stands 
strikingly  silent ;  with  simple  strokes,  he  moves 
them  forward  in  their  embarrassment.  The  under- 
standing of  their  nature,  which  we  occasionally 
seek,  does  not  at  last  remain  doubtful,  but  it  is  clear 
only  by  streaks  of  light  falling  upon  it  from  without. 
Anne's  changes  of  mind,  in  Richard  III.,  in  the  cele- 
brated scene  at  the  bier,  are,  in  a  manner,  concealed. 
No  other  poet  would  dare  venture  these  ;  and  the 


THE   CHARACTERS.  257 

role,  otherwise  brief  and  scanty,  would  have  been  one 
of  the  most  difficult.  The  same  thing  holds  good 
of  many  figures  which,  composed  of  good  and  evil, 
appear  to  help  forward  the  action.  In  the  case  of 
such  roles,  the  poet  trusts  much  to  the  actor. 
Through  suitable  representation,  the  artist  is  able  to 
transform  many  apparent  and  real  harshnesses  into 
new  beauty.  Indeed,  one  often  has  the  feeling, 
that  the  poet  omitted  some  explanatory  accompani- 
ments, because  he  wrote  for  a  definite  actor,  whose 
personality  was  specially  adapted  to  fill  the  role. 
In  other  cases,  a  man  is  distinctly  seen,  who,  more 
than  any  other  dramatic  author,  is  accustomed  as 
actor  and  spectator  to  observe  men  in  the  better 
society,  and  who  understands  how  to  conceal  or  let 
peep  through,  the  characteristic  weaknesses  which 
are  behind  the  forms  of  good  manners.  In  this  style, 
most  of  his  courtiers  are  fashioned.  Through  such 
silence,  through  such  abrupt  transitions,  he  affords 
the  actor  more  gaps  to  fill  than  any  other  dramatist 
does.  Sometimes  his  words  are  merely  like  the 
punctured  background  of  embroidery  ;  but  every- 
thing lies  in  them  exactly  indicated,  felt  to  be 
adapted  to  the  highest  stage  effects.  Then  the 
spectator,  surprised  by  good  acting,  beholds  a  rich, 
well-rounded  life,  where  in  reading,  he  saw  only 
barren  flatness.  It  once  in  a  while  happens  to  a 
poet,  that  he  really  docs  too  little  for  a  character. 
Thus  the  little  role  of  Cordelia,  even  with  good 
acting,  does  not  come  into  the  proportion  which  it 
should  bear  toward  the  rest  of  the  piece.  Much  in 


258      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

some  characters  appears  strange  to  us,  and  in  need 
of  explanation,  which  was  transparent  and  easily 
understood  by  the  writer's  contemporaries,  as  a 
reflection  of  their  life  and  their  culture. 

What  is  greatest  in  this  part,  however,  is,  as  has 
already  been  said,  the  tremendous  impelling  force 
which  operates  in  his  chief  characters.  The  power 
with  which  they  storm  upward  toward  their  fate,  as 
far  as  the  climax  of  the  drama,  is  irresistible — in  al- 
most every  one  a  vigorous  life  and  strong  energy  of 
passion.  And  when  they  have  attained  the  height, 
from  which  by  an  overpowering  might  they  are 
drawn  downward  in  confusion,  the  suspense  has  been 
relieved  for  a  moment  in  a  portentous  deed  ;  then 
come  in  several  passages,  finished  situations  and  in- 
dividual portrayals,  the  most  sublime  that  the  new 
drama  has  produced.  The  dagger  scene  and  ban- 
quet scene  in  Macbeth,  the  bridal  night  in  Romeo  and 
Juliet,  the  hovel  scene  in  Lear,  the  visit  to  the 
mother  in  Hamlet,  Coriolanus  at  the  altar  of  Aufid- 
ius,  are  examples.  Sometimes,  the  interest  of  the 
poet  in  the  characters  appears  to  become  less  from 
this  moment ;  even  in  Hamlet,  in  which  the  grave- 
yard scene  —  however  celebrated  its  melancholy  ob- 
servations are  —  and  the  close  decline,  when  com- 
pared to  the  tension  of  the  first  half.  In  Coriolanus, 
the  two  most  beautiful  scenes  lie  in  the  second  half 
of  the  play ;  in  Othello,  the  most  powerful.  This 
last  piece,  however,  has  other  technical  peculiarities. 

If  Shakespeare's  art  of  characterization  was 
sometimes  dark  and  difficult  for  the  actors  of  his 


THE  CHARACTERS.  259 

time,  it  is  natural  that  we  perceive  his  peculiarities 
very  clearly.  For  no  greater  contrast  is  conceiv- 
able than  his  treatment  of  characters,  and  that  of 
the  German  tragic  poets,  Lessing,  Goethe,  and 
Schiller.  While  in  Shakespeare  we  are  reminded 
through  the  reservedness  of  many  accessory  char- 
acters, that  he  still  stood  near  the  epic  time  of  the 
middle  ages,  our  dramatic  characters  have,  even  to 
superfluity,  the  qualities  of  a  period  of  lyric  cul- 
ture, a  continual,  broad  and  agreeable  presentation 
of  internal  conditions  upon  which  the  heroes  reflect 
with  an  introspection  sometimes  dismal  ;  and  they 
use  sentences  which  doubtless  make  clear  the  shift- 
ing point  of  view  of  the  characters  in  relation  to 
the  moral  order  of  things.  In  the  German  dramas, 
there  is  nothing  dark,  and,  Kleist  excepted,  nothing 
violent. 

Of  all  the  great  German  poets,  Lessing  has  best 
understood  how  to  represent  his  characters  in  the 
surge  of  intense  dramatic  excitement.  Among  his 
contemporaries  in  art,  the  poetic  power  of  the  indi- 
vidual is  most  esteemed  according  to  his  characters  ; 
and  in  just  this  matter  of  characterization,  Lessing 
is  great  and  admirable  ;  the  wealth  of  details,  the 
effect  of  telling,  vital  expressions,  which  surprise 
by  their  beauty  as  well  as  by  their  truth,  is,  in  his 
works,  in  the  limited  circle  of  his  tragic  figures, 
greater  than  in  Goethe,  more  frequent  than  in  Schil- 
ler. The  number  of  his  dramatic  types  is  not 
great.  About  the  tender,  noble,  resolute  maiden, 
Sara,  Emilia,  Minna,  Recha,  and  her  vacillating1 


260      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

lover,  Melfort,  Prince,  Tellheim,  Templer,  the  serv- 
ing confidants  range  themselves  ;  the  dignified 
father,  the  rival,  the  intriguer,  are  all  written  ac- 
cording to  the  craft  of  the  troops  of  players  of  that 
time.  And  yet  in  these  very  types,  the  multiformity 
of  the  variations  is  wonderful.  He  is  a  master  in 
the  representation  of  such  passions  as  express 
themselves  in  the  life  of  the  middle  classes,  where 
the  struggle  toward  beauty  and  nobility  of  soul 
stands  so  marvellously  near  crude  desire.  And  how 
conveniently  all  is  thought  out  for  the  actor!  No 
one  else  has  so  worked  out  of  his  very  soul  for 
him  ;  what  seems,  in  reading,  sd  restless  and  theat- 
rically excited,  comes  into  its  right  proportion  only 
through  representation  on  the  stage. 

Only  at  single  moments,  his  dialectic  of  passion 
fails  to  give  the  impression  of  truth,  because  he 
over-refines  it  and  yields  to  a  pleasure  in  hair-split- 
ting quibbles.  In  a  few  places,  his  reflections  ex- 
pand to  where  they  do  not  belong  ;  and  sometimes 
in  the  midst  of  a  profound  poetic  invention,  there 
is  an  artificial  stroke  which  cools  instead  of  strength- 
ening the  impression.  Besides  much  in  Nathan  the 
Wise,  there  is  an  example  of  this  in  Sara  Sampson, 
III.  3,  the  passage  in  which  Sara  discusses  passion- 
ately with  herself  whether  she  shall  receive  her 
father's  letter.  This  stroke  is  specially  to  be  made 
use  of  as  a  brief  detail  in  characterization  ;  for  this 
purpose,  also,  it  is  to  be  treated  as  a  suggestion  ;  in 
broad  elaboration,  it  would  be  painful. 

For  a  long  time  yet,  Lessing's   pieces   will  be  a 


THE   CHARACTERS.  261 

fine  school  for  the  German  actor  ;  and  they  will 
still  preserve  the  fond  respect  of  the  artist  on  our 
stage,  if  only  a  more  manly  culture  shall  make  the 
spectator  more  sensitive  to  the  weakness  of  the  re- 
turn action  in  Minna  von  Banthelm,  and  Emilia  Ga- 
lotti.  For  the  great  man  erred  in  this,  that  violent 
passion  suffices  to  make  a  poetic  character  dra- 
matic, since  it  depends  much  more  on  the  relation 
in  which  the  passion  stands  to  power  of  will.  His 
passion  creates  sorrow  and  excites  sometimes  in  the 
spectator  a  protesting  pity.  Still  his  chief  charac- 
ters vacillate  —  though  this  is  not  his  badge,  but 
that  of  his  time — driven  hither  and  thither  by 
strong  emotion  ;  and  when  they  are  brought  to 
commit  an  ominous  deed,  this  often  lacks  the  high- 
est justification.  The  tragic  development  in  Sara 
Sampson  rests  upon  this  :  Melfort  perpetrates  the 
indignity  of  appointing  a  rendezvous  between 
his  former  mistress  and  Miss  Sara  ;  in  Emilia 
Galotti,  the  maiden  is  stabbed  by  her  father,  out  of 
caution. 

The  freedom  and  the  nobility  with  which  the 
poetic  characters  of  the  last  century  express  their 
spiritual  moods,  is  not  accompanied  with  a  corre- 
sponding mastery  of  performance  ;  only  too  fre- 
quentlv  a  time  is  perceived  in  which  the  character, 
even  the  best,  was  not  firmly  drawn  out,  and  hard- 
ened to  steel  by  a  strong  public  opinion,  by  the 
strong,  certain  import  which  public  political  life 
gives  one.  Arbitrariness  in  the  moral  point  of 
view,  and  sensitive  uncertainty,  disturb  the  highest 


262      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

artistic  effects  of  even  the  power  of  genius.  The 
reproach  has  often  been  made  against  Goethe's 
plays  that  here  is  only  indicated  the  progress  that 
was  introduced  with  dramatic  effects  by  him  and 
Schiller. 

In  the  characterizing  details  of  his  roles,  Goethe 
is  not  more  abundant  than  Lessing,  —  Weislingen, 
Clavigo,  Egmont,  are  dramatically  even  more  scanty 
than  Melfort,  Prince,  Tellheim  ;  -—his  figures  have 
nothing  of  the  violently  pulsating  life,  of  the  rest- 
less, feverish  element,  which  vibrates  in  the  emo- 
tions of  Lessing's  characters  ;  nothing  artificial 
disturbs  ;  the  inexhaustible  charm  of  his  spirit  en- 
nobles even  what  is  lacking.  In  the  first  place, 
Goethe  and  Schiller  have  opened  up  to  the  Germans 
the  historical  drama,  the  more  elevated  style  of 
treating  characters,  which  is  indispensable  to  great 
tragic  effects,  even  if  Goethe  did  not  attain  these 
effects  particularly  by  the  power  of  his  characters, 
not  by  the  action,  but  by  the  unsurpassable  beauty 
and  sublimity  with  which  he  made  the  spirit  of  his 
heroes  ring  out  in  words.  There  especially,  where 
from  his  dramatic  persons  the  hearty  sincerity  of 
lyric  feeling  could  ring  through,  is  seen,  in  little 
traits,  a  magic  of  poetry  which  no  other  German 
has  even  approximately  attained.  Thus  operates 
the  role  of  Gretchen. 

It  is  not  by  chance  that  such  supreme  beauty  in 
Goethe's  female  characters  is  effective  ;  the  men  do 
not,  as  a  rule,  drive  forward  ;  they  are  driven  ;  in- 
deed, they  sometimes  claim  a  sympathy  on  the 


THE  CHARACTERS.  263 

stage,  which  they  do  not  merit,  and  appear  as  good 
friends  of  the  poet  himself ;  and  their  good  quali- 
ties are  known  only  to  him,  because  they  do  not 
turn  their  good  side  to  the  society  into  which  he 
has  invited  them.  What  makes  Faust  our  greatest 
poetic  masterpiece  is  not  its  fulness  of  dramatic 
life,  least  of  all,  in  the  role  of  Faust  himself.  If, 
however,  the  impelling  force  of  Goethe's  heroes  is 
not  powerful  enough  to  make  sublime  effects  and 
mighty  conflicts  possible,  their  dramatic  movement 
in  single  scenes  is  compact,  skilful  and  adapted  to 
the  stage  ;  and  the  connection  of  the  dialogue  is 
admirable.  For  the  greatest  beauty  of  Goethe's 
plays  is  the  scenes  which  have  their  course  between 
two  persons.  Lessing  understands  how  to  occupy 
three  persons  on  the  stage,  with  great  effect,  in  pas- 
sionate counter-play  ;  but  Schiller  directs  a  great 
number  with  firmness,  and  superior  certainty. 
Schiller's  method  of  delineating  character  in  his 
youth  is  very  different  from  the  method  of  his  riper 
years.  He  shows  great  progress,  but  not  entirely 
without  loss.  What  a  transformation  from  his  con- 
ception of  beautiful  souls  which  in  The  Robbers 
he  erected  into  something  monstrous,  and  later  into 
the  heroic,  and  at  last  in  Demetrius,  into  the  firm 
compactness  of  character  similar  to  that  of  Shakes- 
peare's persons ! 

During  more  than  half  a  century,  the  splendor 
and  nobility  of  Schiller's  characters  have  ruled  the 
German  stage;  and  the  weak  imitators  of  his 'style 
have  not  long  understood  that  the  fulness  of  his 


264      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

diction  produced  so  great  an  effect  only  because 
beneath  it  there  lies  a  wealth  of  dramatic  life,  cov- 
ered as  by  a  plating  of  gold.  This  dramatic  life  of 
his  persons  is  already  very  striking  in  his  earliest 
plays.  In  Love  and  Intrigue,  it  won  such  significant 
expression,  that  in  this  direction  in  later  works,  an 
advance  is  not  always  visible.  To  verse  and  the 
more  elevated  style,  he  has  added  at  least  pithy 
brevity,  an  expression  of  passion  suitable  to  the 
stage,  and  many  a  consideration  for  the  actor.  His 
expression  of  feelings  and  perceptions  becomes  con- 
tinually fuller  in  speech  and  more  eloquent.  His 
characters,  also, — specially  the  fully  elaborated 
ones, —  have  that  peculiar  quality  of  his  time, 
impressively  to  enunciate  to  the  hearer  their 
thought  and  feeling  at  many  moments  in  the 
action.  And  they  do  it  in  the  manner  of  highly 
cultured  and  contemplative  men ;  for  a  beautiful, 
and  often  a  finished  picture,  depends  for  them  on 
passionate  feeling;  and  the  mood  which  sounds 
forth  from  their  souls  is  followed  by  a  meditation, 
an  observation, — as  we  all  know,  often  of  highest 
beauty, — through  which  the  moral  grounds  of  the 
excited  feeling  is  made  clear,  and  the  confusion, 
the  embarrassment  of  the  situation,  through  an  ele- 
vation to  a  higher  standpoint,  appears  for.  the 
moment  cleared  away.  It  is  evident  that  such  a 
method  of  dramatic  creation,  of  the  representation 
of  strong  passion,  is  in  general  not  favorable,  and 
will  certainly  in  some  future  period  cease  to  appear 
among  our  successors.  But  it  is  just  as  certain  that 


THE  CHARACTERS.  265 

it  perfectly  repeats  the  manner  of  feeling  and  per- 
ceiving which  was  peculiar  to  the  cultured  Germans 
at  the  end  of  the  last  century,  as  no  other  poetic 
method  docs,  and  that  upon  it  rests  a  part  of  the 
effect  which  Schiller's  dramas  produce  to-day  upon 
the  people  ;  certainly  only  a  part,  for  the  great- 
ness of  the  poet  lies  in  this,  that  he  who  accords  to 
his  characters  so  many  resting  places,  even  in 
excited  movements,  knows  how  to  keep  these  in 
extreme  tension  ;  almost  all  have  a  strong,  inspired, 
inner  life,  a  content  with  which  they  stand  securely 
against  the  outer  world.  In  this  embarrassment, 
they  sometimes  give  the  impression  of  somnambu- 
lists, to  whom  a  disturbance  from  the  outer  world 
becomes  fatal ;  thus  the  Maid,  Wallenstcin,  Max, 
Thekla  ;  or  who  at  least  need  a  strong  shock  to  their 
inner  life,  to  be  brought  to  a  deed,  like  Tell,  even 
Caesar  and  Manuel.  Therefore,  the  impassioned 
agitation  of  Schiller's  chief  characters,  is  in  the  last 
analysis,  not  always  dramatic  ;  but  this  imperfection 
is  often  covered  by  the  rich  detail  and  beautiful 
characterization  with  which  he  equips  the  accessory 
figures.  Finally,  the  greatest  advance  which  Ger- 
man art  has  made  through  him,  is  that  in  a  powerful 
tragic  material,  he  makes  his  persons  participants  in 
an  action  which  has  for  its  background,  not  the 
relations  of  private  life,  but  the  highest  interests  of 
man,  of  the  state,  of  faith.  His  beauty  and  power 
will  always  be  dangerous  to  young  poets  and  actors, 
because  the  inner  life  of  his  characters  streams 
forth  richly  in  speech.  In  this,  he  does  so  much 


266      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

that  there  remains,  often,  little  for  the  actor  to  do  ; 
his  plays  need  less  from  the  stage  than  those  of  any 
other  poet. 

II. 

THE  CHARACTERS  IN  THE  MATERIAL,  AND  ON 
THE   STAGE. 

Both  the  rights  and  the  duty  of  the  poet  compel 
him,  during  his  labor,  to  an  incessant  conflict  with 
the  pictures  which  history,  the  epic,  and  his  own 
life  offer  him. 

It  is  undeniable  that  ardor  and  the  charm  of 
invention,  are  frequently  first  given  to  the  German 
poet  by  his  characters.  Such  a  method  of  creation 
appears  irreconcilable  with  the  old  fundamental  law 
for  the  forming  of  the  action,  that  the  action  must 
be  the  first,  the  characters  second.  If  pleasure  in 
the  characteristic  nature  of  the  hero  can  cause  the 
poet  to  compose  an  action  for  it,  the  action  stands 
under  the  dominion  of  the  character,  is  fashioned 
through  it,  is  invented  for  it.  The  contradiction  is 
only  an  apparent  one ;  for  to  the  creating  genius, 
the  disposition  and  character  of  a  hero  do  not 
appear  as  they  do  to  the  historian,  who  at  the  end 
of  his  work  draws  the  results  of  a  life,  or  as  they 
appear  to  a  reader  of  history,  who  from  the  impres- 
sions of  different  adventures  and  deeds,  gradually 
paints  for  himself  the  portrait  of  a  man.  The  crea- 
tive power  comes  into  the  ardent  mind  of  the  poet 
more  in  such  a  way,  that  it  brings  out  vividly 
and  with  charm,  the  character  of  a  hero,  in  single 


THE  CHARACTERS.  267 

moments  of  its  relations  to  other  men.  These 
moments  in  which  the  character  becomes  a  living 
thing,  are  in  the  work  of  the  epic  poet,  situations; 
in  the  work  of  the  dramatist,  actions  in  which  the 
hero  proceeds  with  some  commotion ;  they  are  the 
foundations  of  the  action,  not  yet  connected  and 
full  of  life;  in  them,  already  the  idea  of  the  piece 
lies,  probably  not  yet  clarified  and  separate.  But 
it  is  always  a  presumption  of  this  first  beginning  of 
poetic  work,  that  the  character  becomes  a  living, 
animated  thing  under  the  compulsion  of  some  part 
of  the  action.  Only  under  such  a  presumption  is  a 
poetic  conception  of  it  possible. 

But  the  process  of  idealization  begins  in  this 
way :  the  outlines  of  the  historic  character,  or  char- 
acter otherwise  deemed  of  worth,  fashion  themselves 
according  to  the  demands  of  the  situation  which 
has  appeared  in  the  soul  of  the  poet.  The  trait  of 
character  which  is  useful  to  the  invented  moments  of 
the  action,  becomes  a  fundamental  trait  of  the  being, 
to  which  all  the  remaining  characteristic  peculiari- 
ties are  subordinated  as  supplementary  adjuncts. 
Suppose  the  poet  is  to  grasp  the  character  of  Em- 
peror Charles  V.;  he  is  able  to  perceive  him  poeti- 
cally only  when  he  makes  him  pass  through  a  defi- 
nite action.  The  emperor  at  the  parliament  of 
Worms,  or  standing  over  against  the  captive  king, 
Francis,  or  in  the  scene  in  which  the  Landgrave  of 
Hesse  prostrates  himself  at  Halle,  or  at  the  mo- 
ment when  he  receives  the  news  of  the  threat- 
ened incursion  of  the  elector  Moritz, — the  emperor 


268      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

under  the  pressure  of  each  of  these  situations,  is 
every  time  quite  a  different  person;  he  retains  all 
the  features  of  the  historical  Charles ;  but  his  ex- 
pression becomes  a  peculiar  one,  and  so  dominates 
the  entire  picture  that  it  cannot  pass  for  a  historic 
portrait.  Yet  the  transformation  quickly  goes  fur- 
ther. To  the  first  poetic  vision  others  are  joined ; 
there  is  a  struggle  to  become  a  whole,  it  contains 
beginning  and  end.  And  each  new  member  of  the 
action,  which  develops  itself,  forces  upon  the  char- 
acter something  of  color  and  motive,  which  are  nec- 
essary to  its  understanding.  If  the  action  is 
directed  in  this  way,  the  real  character  is  fully 
transformed  under  the  hand  of  the  poet,  according 
to  the  needs  of  his  idea.  Of  course  the  creative 
artist,  all  this  time,  during  his  entire  work,  carries 
in  his  soul  the  features  of  the  real  person,  as  an 
accessory  picture  or  counter-portrait.  He  takes 
from  this  what  he  can  use  in  details ;  but  what  he 
creates  from  this,  is  brought  out  freely  according  to 
the  demands  of  his  action,  and  with  additions  of  its 
own  is  molten  to  a  new  mass. 

A  striking  example  is  the  character  of  Wallen- 
stein  in  Schiller's  double  drama.  It  is  no  accident 
that  the  figure  in  the  poem  was  fashioned  so  differ- 
ent from  that  of  the  historical  picture  of  the  impe- 
rial general.  The  demands  of  the  action  have  given 
him  his  appearance.  The  poet  is  interested  in  the 
historical  Wallenstein ;  since  the  death  of  Gustavus 
Adolphus,  this  man  has  become  enchanting.  He 
has  great  plans,  is  a  magnificent  egotist,  and  has  an 


THE   CHARACTERS.  269 

unclouded  conception  of  the  political  situation. 
Now  a  drama  the  business  of  which  was  to  portray 
the  end  of  his  career,  had  the  fewest  possible  pre- 
supposed conditions  to  represent,  as  the  hero  be- 
comes a  traitor  by  degrees,  through  his  own  guilt, 
and  under  the  stress  of  his  relations.  Schiller  saw 
in  his  mind's  eye  the  figure  of  Wallcnstein,  as  from 
premonitions  it  seeks  to  learn  its  fate  (probably  the 
first  vision),  then  as  it  comes  in  contact  with  Ques- 
tenbcrg,  then  with  Wrangcl,  then  as  the  loyal  men 
free  themselves  from  him.  These  were  the  first 
moments  of  action.  Now  it  was  conceivable  that 
such  a  criminal  beginning,  if  the  plans  miscarried, 
would  show  the  hero  actually  weaker,  more  short- 
sighted, smaller,  than  the  opposing  powers.  There- 
fore, in  order  to  preserve  his  greatness  and  main- 
tain interest  in  him,  a  leading,  fundamental  trait  of 
character  must  be  invented  for  him,  which  should 
elevate  him,  and  prove  him  free  and  independent, 
self-active  before  what  allured  him  to  treason,  and 
which  should  explain  how  an  eminent  and  superior 
man  could  be  more  short-sighted  than  those  about 
him.  In  the  real  Wallcnstein,  there  was  something 
of  this  kind  to  be  found ;  he  wa<L  superstitious,  be- 
lieved in  astrology  —  but  not  more  than  his  contem- 
poraries. This  trait  could  be  made  poetically 
useful.  But  as  a  little  motive,  as  a  thing  to  wonder 
at  in  his  character,  it  would  have  been  of  little  use ; 
it  had  to  be  ennobled,  spiritually  refined.  So  there 
arose  the  image  of  a  thoughtful,  inspired,  elevated 
man,  who  in  a  time  of  carnage,  strides  over  human 


270      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

life  and  human  rights,  his  eye  turned  fixedly  toward 
the  heights  where  he  believes  he  sees  the  silent 
rulers  of  his  destiny.  And  the  same  sad,  dreary 
playing  with  the  inconceivably  great,  could  exalt 
him  out  of,  and  above  external  relations  ;  for  the 
same  fundamental  characteristic  of  his  being,  a  cer- 
tain inclination  to  equivocal  and  underhand  dealing, 
groping  attempts  and  a  feeling  about,  might  grad- 
ually entangle  him,  the  freeman,  in  the  net  of  trea- 
son. Thus  a  dramatic  movement  of  its  own  kind 
was  found  for  his  inward  being.  But  this  character- 
istic of  his  being  was,  in  its  essential  nature,  yet  an 
irrational  force  ;  it  held  spell-bound ;  it  placed  him, 
for  us,  near  the  supernatural ;  it  remained  a  great 
anomaly.  In  order  to  work  tragically,  the  same 
characteristic  must  be  brought  into  relation  with  the 
best  and  most  amiable  feelings  of  his  heart.  That 
belief  in  the  revelations  of  powers  incomprehensi- 
ble to  the  hero,  consecrates  the  friendly  relations  to 
the  Piccolomini ;  that  this  same  belief  is  not  called 
out,  but  ominously  advanced,  by  a  secret  need  of 
something  to  honor,  something  to  trust,  and  that 
this  trust  in  men,  which  Wallenstein  has  confidently 
made  clear  through  his  faith;  that  this  faith  must 
destroy  him, — this  brings  the  strange  figure  very  near 
to  our  hearts ;  it  gives  the  action  inner  unity ;  it 
gives  the  character  greater  intensity.  In  such  a 
way,  the  first-found  situations,  and  the  necessity  of 
bringing  them  into  an  established  connection  of 
cause  and  effect,  and  to  round  them  out  to  a  dram- 
atically effective  action,  have  transformed  the  his- 


THE   CHARACTERS.  271 

torical  character  feature  by  feature.  So  his  adver- 
sary, Octavio,  too,  has  been  transformed  by  the 
tendency  to  give  an  inner  connection  with  Wallen- 
stein,  of  course  in  dependence  on  his  character.  A 
cold  intriguer,  who  draws  together  the  net  over  those 
who  trust  him,  would  not  have  sufficed ;  he  must  be 
exalted,  and  be  placed  intellectually  near  the  chief 
hero ;  and  if  he  were  conceived  as  friend  of  the  de- 
luded one,  who, — no  matter  from  what  sense  of  duty, 
— surrenders  the  friend,  so  it  would  be  to  the  pur- 
pose to  invent  a  trait  of  character  in  his  life,  which 
should  weave  his  destiny  with  that  of  Wallenstein. 
Since  there  was  needed  in  this  gloomy  material,  a 
warmer  life,  brighter  colors,  a  succession  of  gentle 
and  touching  feelings,  the  author  created  Max. 
This  poor,  unsuspecting  child  of  the  camp,  was  at 
once  the  opposite  of  his  father  and  of  his  general. 
The  poet  cared  too  little,  with  respect  to  this  figure, 
that  it  stood  a  fresh,  harmless,  unspotted  nature,  in 
contradiction  to  its  own  presupposed  conditions,  and 
to  the  unbridled  life  of  a  soldier,  in  which  it  had 
grown  up ;  for  Schiller  was  not  at  all  careful  to  give 
motive  to  anything,  if  it  only  served  his  purpose. 
It  satisfied  him  that  this  being,  through  character 
and  aptness,  could  come  into  a  noble  and  sharply- 
cut  contrast  with  the  hero  and  his  opponent;  and 
so  him,  and  the  corresponding  figure  of  his  beloved, 
the  poet  produced  with  a  fondness  which  deter- 
mined even  the  form  of  the  drama. 

Considered    on   the  whole,   then,    it   was   not  a 
freak,    a    chance    discovery    of    the     poet,    which 


272      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

formed  the  character  of  Wallcnstein  and  his 
counter-player.  But  of  course,  these  persons,  like 
every  poetic  image,  are  colored  by  the  personality 
of  the  poet.  And  it  is  characteristic  of  Schiller  to 
imbue  all  his  heroes  visibly  with  the  thoughts 
which  fill  his  own  soul.  This  spirited  contempla- 
tion, as  well  as  the  great,  simple  lines  of  a  broad 
design,  we  perceive  already  as  his  peculiarity.  The 
characteristic  of  his  age  was  quite  otherwise. 
Mastery  in  meditation  and  pondering  is  not,  in 
Wallenstein,  brought  into  equilibrium  by  a  decisive 
power  of  will.  That  he  listened  to  the  voice  of  the 
stars,  which  at  last  becomes  the  voice  of  his  own 
heart,  would  be  expected.  But  he  is  represented  as 
dependent  on  his  environment.  The  Countess 
Terzky  directs  him  ;  Max  re-directs  him  ;  and  the 
accident  that  Wrangel  has  disappeared,  hinders, 
possibly,  a  reverse  of  results.  Surely  it  was  Schil- 
ler's purpose  to  make  prominent  Wallenstein's  lack 
of  resolution  ;  but  vacillation  is,  with  us,  a  disad- 
vantage, to  be  used  for  every  hero  of  a  play,  only  as 
a  sharp  contrast  to  a  sustained  power  of  action. 

If  this  process  of  deriving  the  character  from  the 
internal  necessity  of  the  action  seems  a  result  of 
intelligent  consideration,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to 
confess  that  it  does  not  thus  perfect  itself  in  the 
warm  soul  of  the  poet.  Indeed,  here  enters  during 
many  hours,  a  cool  weighing,  a  supervision,  a  sup- 
plementing, of  creative  invention ;  but  the  process 
of  creation  goes  on  still,  in  essentials,  with  a  natural 
force  in  which  the  same  thought  is  unconsciously 


THE    CHARACTERS.  273 

active  with  the  poet,  the  same  thought  which  we  in 
presence  of  the  completed  masterpiece,  recognize 
through  reflection  as  the  indwelling  law  of  intellec- 
tual production.  Not  only  is  the  transformation  of 
historical  characters  according  to  the  demands  of 
the  action,  specially  shown  to  be  different  in  different 
authors  ;  but  the  same  poetic  mind  does  not  always 
appear  equally  free  and  unembarrassed  before  all 
its  heroes.  It  is  possible  that  a  strong  poetic  power 
may  seek,  for  some  purpose,  to  represent  with  special 
care,  single  historical  traits  in  the  life  of  a  hero. 
In  the  completed  work,  then,  this  care  is  recognized 
in  a  peculiar  wealth  of  appropriate  features,  which 
are  valuable  for  purposes  of  characterization. 
Shakespeare's  Henry  VIII.  shows  a  fuller  portrait- 
ure than  any  other  heroic  figure  of  that  poet's 
plays.  This  figure  is  entirely  transformed  in  essen- 
tials, to  conform  to  the  needs  of  the  action,  and  is 
separated  by  a  wide  gulf,  from  the  historic  Henry. 
But  what  is  valuable  for  portraiture  in  the  sketch- 
ing, as  well  as  the  numerous  considerations  which 
the  poet  had  for  real  history,  in  constructing  the 
action,  give  to  the  drama  a  strange  coloring.  How- 
ever numerous  the  traits  in  this  richly  endowed 
character  are,  it  will  seldom  appear  to  an  actor  as 
the  most  remunerative  role  to  study. 

For  similar  reasons,  the  introduction  and  use  of 
historical  heroes  whose  portraits  have  become 
specially  popular,  for  example  Luther,  and  Fred- 
erick the  Great,  is  very  difficult.  The  temptation  is 
too  strong  to  bring  out  such  well-known  traits  of 


274      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

the  historical  figure  as  are  not  essential  to  the 
action  of  the  play,  and  therefore  appear  accidental. 
This  addition  to  a  single  figure  taken  from  reality, 
gives  it  in  the  midst  of  persons,  the  product  of 
unfettered  invention,  a  remarkable,  a  painfully 
pretentious,  a  repulsive  appearance.  The  desire  to 
present  the  most  accurate  reflection  of  the  real 
being,  will  too  strongly  allure  the  actor  to  petty 
delineation.  Even  the  spectator  wants  an  accurate 
portrait,  and  is  perhaps  surprised  if  the  other  char- 
acters and  the  action  are  less  effective,  because  he 
is  so  strongly  reminded  of  an  esteemed  friend  in 
history. 

The  requirement  is  easily  given  that  the  dra- 
matic character  must  be  true ;  that  especially  the 
life  forces  must  be  in  unison  with  each  other,  and 
must  be  felt  as  belonging  together,  and  that  the 
characters  must  exactly  correspond  to  the  whole  of 
the  action,  in  respect  to  coloring  and  spiritual  im- 
port. But  such  a  rule,  so  generally  expressed,  will, 
in  many  cases,  afford  the  beginning  poet  no  aid, 
where  the  discord  between  the  ultimate  demands  of 
his  art,  and  of  the  historian's  art,  and  even  of  many 
a  poetic  truth,  prepares  secret  difficulties. 

It  is  understood  that  the  poet  will  faithfully  pre- 
serve the  deliverances  of  history,  where  they  are  of 
service  to  him  and  cause  no  derangement.  For 
our  time,  so  advanced  in  historical  culture  and  in 
the  knowledge  of  the  earlier  relations  of  civilization, 
keeps  an  eye  upon  the  historical  culture  of  its  dra- 
matists. The  poet  must  have  care  that  he  do  not 


THE  CHARACTERS.  275 

give  his  heroes  too  little  of  the  import  of  their  own 
time,  and  that  a  modern  perception  and  feeling  in 
the  characters  do  not  appear  to  the  educated  spec- 
tator in  contradiction  to  the  well-known  embarrass- 
ments and  peculiarities  of  the  life  of  the  soul  in 
older  times.  The  young  poets  easily  lend  to  their 
heroes  a  knowledge  of  their  own  times,  a  certain 
skill  in  philosophizing  upon  the  most  important 
occurrences,  and  in  finding  such  points  of  view  for 
their  deeds  as  are  current  in  historical  works  of 
modern  times.  It  is  uncomfortable  to  hear  an  old 
emperor  of  the  Franconian  or  Hohenstaufcn  line 
express  the  tendencies  of  his  time,  so  self-con- 
sciously, so  for  a  purpose,  so  very  shrewdly  as,  for 
instance,  Stenzel  and  Raumer  have  represented. 
But  not  less  dangerous  is  the  opposite  temptation 
into  which  poets  come  through  the  effort  vividly 
to  set  forth  the  peculiarities  of  the  past.  The  re- 
markable, that  which  deflects  from  our  own  nature 
toward  older  times,  easily  seems  to  them  as  charac- 
teristic and  effective  for  their  purpose.  Then  the 
poet  is  in  danger  of  smothering  the  immediate 
interest  which  we  take  in  the  easily  intelligible,  the 
universally  human,  and  in  still  greater  danger  of 
building  the  course  of  his  action  upon  singularities 
of  that  past,  on  the  transitory,  which  in  art  gives 
the  impression  of  the  accidental  and  arbitrary. 

And  yet  there  often  remains,  in  an  historical  piece, 
an  inevitable  opposition  between  the  dramatically 
arranged  characters  and  the  dramatically  arranged 
action.  At  this  dangerous  point,  it  is  profitable  to 


276      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

tarry  a  little.  Since  it  is  a  duty  of  the  poet  who 
uses  historical  material,  to  give  special  attention  to 
what  we  call  the  color  and  costume  of  the  time,  and 
since  not  only  the  characters  but  the  action,  too,  is 
taken  from  a  distant  age,  there  will  certainly  be,  in 
the  idea  of  the  piece  and  of  the  action,  in  the  mo- 
tives and  situations,  much  that  is  not  universally 
human  and  intelligible  to  every  one,  but  that  is  ex- 
plained through  what  is  remarkable  and  character- 
istic of  that  time.  When,  for  instance,  the  murder 
of  a  king  is  committed  by  ambitious  heroes,  as  in 
Macbeth  or  Richard,  where  the  intriguer  attacks  his 
rival  with  poison  or  dagger,  where  the  wife  of  a 
prince  is  thrown  into  water  because  she  springs 
from  the  middle  class, — in  these  and  innumerable 
other  cases,  the  embarrassment  and  the  destiny  of 
the  heroes  must  be  derived  from  the  represented 
event,  from  the  peculiarities  and  customs  of  their 
times. 

If  these  figures  belong  to  a  time  which  has  here 
been  called  the  epic,  in  which  man's  inward  freedom 
has  been  in  reality  little  developed,  in  which  the 
dependence  of  the  individual  upon  the  example  of 
others,  upon  custom  and  usage,  is  much  greater,  in 
which  man's  inner  being  is  not  poorer  in  strong  feel- 
ing, but  is  much  poorer  in  the  ability  to  express  it 
by  means  of  speech, —  then  the  characters  of  the 
drama  can  not  at  all  represent,  in  the  essential 
thing,  such  an  embarrassment.  For  since  upon  the 
stage,  the  effect  is  produced  not  by  deeds,  not  by 
beautiful  discourse,  but  by  the  exhibition  of  mental 


THE  CHARACTERS.  277 

processes,  through  which  feeling  and  volition  are  con- 
centrated into  a  deed,  the  dramatic  chief  characters 
must  show  a  degree  of  freedom  of  will,  a  refine- 
ment and  a  dialectic  of  passion,  which  stand  in  the 
most  essential  contrast  with  the  actual  embarrass- 
ment and  naivete  of  their  old  prototypes  in  reality. 
Now  the  artist  would,  of  course,  be  easily  for- 
given for  endowing  his  people  with  a  fuller, 
stronger,  and  richer  life  than  they  had  in  the  real 
world,  if  only  this  richer  fulness  did  not  give  the 
impression  of  untruth,  because  individual  conditions 
presupposed  for  the  action,  do  not  tolerate  a  char- 
acter so  constructed.  For  the  action  which  is  de- 
rived from  history  or  from  legend,  and  which 
everywhere  betrays  the  social  features,  the  degree 
of  culture,  the  peculiarities  of  its  time,  the  poet 
cannot  always  so  easily  imbue  with  a  deeper  import 
as  he  can  individual  characters.  The  poet  may,  for 
example,  put  into  the  mouth  of  an  oriental  the  finest 
thoughts,  the  tenderest  feelings  of  the  sweetest  pas- 
sion, and  yet  so  color  the  character  that  it  contains 
the  beautiful  appearance  of  poetic  truth.  But  now, 
perhaps  the  action  makes  it  necessary  that  this  same 
character  have  the  women  of  his  harem  drowned  in 
sacks,  or  have  them  beheaded.  Then  the  contra- 
diction between  action  and  character  crops  out  in- 
evitably. This  is,  indeed,  a  difficulty  of  dramatic 
creation  which  cannot  always  be  met,  even  by  the 
greatest  talent  in  that  direction.  Then  it  requires 
all  art  to  conceal  from  the  spectator  the  latent  con- 
tradiction between  the  material  and  the  vital  needs 


278      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

of  the  action.  For  this  reason,  all  love  scenes  in 
historic  pieces  present  peculiar  difficulties.  Here, 
where  we  demand  the  most  direct  expression  of  a 
lovely  passion,  it  is  a  difficult  task  to  give  at  the 
same  time  the  local  color.  The  poet  is  most  likely 
to  succeed  if,  as  in  the  case  of  Goethe  and  Gretchen, 
he  can.  in  such  a  situation,  paint  peculiarities  of 
character  in  a  stronger  color,  and  even  approach  the 
borders  of  genre  painting.  The  quiet  struggle  of 
the  poet  with  the  assumptions  of  his  subject-matter, 
which  are  undramatic  and  yet  not  to  be  dispensed 
with,  occurs  in  almost  every  action  taken  from  he- 
roic legend  or  the  older  histories. 

In  the  epic  material  which  the  heroic  legends  of 
the  great  civilized  races  offer,  the  action  is  already 
artistically  arranged,  even  if  according  to  other  than 
dramatic  requirements.  The  life  and  adventures  of 
heroes  appear  complete,  determined  by  momentous 
deeds  ;  usually,  the  sequence  of  events  in  which 
they  appear  acting  or  enduring,  forms  a  chain  of 
considerable  length ;  but  it  is  possible  to  detach 
single  links  for  the  use  of  the  drama.  The  heroes 
themselves  float  indistinctly  in  great  outlines,  while 
single  characteristic  peculiarities  are  powerfully 
developed.  They  stand  upon  the  heights  of  their 
nationality,  and  display  a  power  and  greatness  as 
sublime  and  peculiar  as  the  creative  phantasy  of  a 
people  can  invent ;  and  the  momentous  results  of 
their  lives  are  frequently  just  what  the  dramatic 
poet  seeks, — love  and  hate,  selfish  desire,  conflict 
and  destruction. 


THE  CHARACTERS.  279 

Such  materials  are  further  consecrated  through 
the  fondest  recollections  of  a  people ;  they  were 
once  the  pride,  joy,  entertainment  of  millions. 
After  their  transformation  through  a  creative  popu-t 
lar  spirit,  which  lasted  for  centuries,  they  were  still 
flexible  enough  to  afford  to  the  invention  of  the 
dramatic  poet  opportunity  for  the  intensification  of 
character,  as  well  as  for  alterations  in  the  connec- 
tion of  the  action.  Many  of  them  have  come  to  us 
with  the  elaboration  which  they  underwent  in  a 
great  epic ;  the  most  of  them,  in  their  essential 
contents,  are  not,  even  according  to  our  culture, 
entirely  strange  to  us.  What  is  here  said  is  more 
or  less  applicable  to  the  great  cycles  of  Greek 
legends,  of  the  legendary  traditions  which  are  inter- 
woven with  the  earliest  history  of  the  Romans,  of 
the  heroic  tales  of  the  Germans,  and  Latins  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

Indeed,  upon  a  closer  inspection,  the  characters 
of  the  epic  tradition  differ  much  from  the  persons 
necessary  to  the  drama.  It  is  true,  the  heroes  of 
Homer  and  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied  are  quite  dis- 
tinct personalities.  A  glance  into  the  interior  of  a 
human  soul,  into  the  surging  feeling,  is  not  entirely 
forbidden  to  epic  poets ;  indeed  they  often  derive 
the  fate  of  the  hero  from  his  character ;  they  derive 
his  ominous  deeds  from  his  passions.  In  the  poetry 
of  early  times,  the  knowledge  of  the  human  heart, 
and  the  sane  judgment  which  might  explain  a 
man's  destiny  from  his  virtues,  faults,  and  passions, 
are  admirable.  Not  so  well  developed  is  the  capa- 


28o      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

bility  of  representing  the  details  of  mental  processes. 
The  life  of  the  persons  expresses  itself  in  little 
anecdotal  traits  which  are  often  perceived  with  a 
surprising  fineness  :  what  lies  before,  the  quiet  labor 
within,  what  follows  after  such  a  deed,  the  quiet 
effect  on  the  soul,  is  passed  over  or  quickly  dis- 
posed of. 

How  a  man  asserts  himself  among  strangers,  is 
victorious,  or  perishes  in  a  strife  with  stronger  pow- 
ers which  stand  against  him, —  to  relate  this  is  the 
chief  charm ;  also,  describing  high  festivals,  duels, 
battles,  adventures  of  travel.  The  expression  of 
feeling  is  most  animated  where  the  suffering  man 
rebels  against  the  unendurable ;  but  here,  too,  the 
expression  becomes  rigid,  relatively  unanimated,  in 
frequently  recurring  forms,  complaints,  prayer  to 
the  gods,  perhaps  so  that  the  speaker  holds  up 
another's  fate  in  contrast  with  his  own,  or  mirrors 
his  situation  in  an  elaborate  picture.  The  speech 
of  the  hero  is  almost  always  scanty,  simple,  monot- 
onous, with  the  same  recurring  notes  of  feeling. 
Thus  the  soliloquies  of  Odysseus  and  of  Penelope 
are  made  in  the  poem,  in  which  the  peculiar  life  is 
most  richly  represented,  and  with  the  best  individual 
traits.  Where  the  inner  connection  of  events  rests 
upon  the  secret  plots  and  the  peculiar  passion  of  a 
single  person,  also  where  a  momentous  action  is 
developed  from  the  inward  being  of  a  character, 
the  analysis  of  the  passion  is  scarcely  at  hand. 
Kriemhild's  plan  to  take  revenge  for  the  murder  of 
her  husband,  all  the  emotions  of  soul  of  this  most 


THE   CHARACTERS.  281 

enchanting  person,  who  lives  so  powerfully  in  the 
poet's  heart, —  how  brief,  and  concealed  they  are  in 
the  narrative !  It  is  characteristic  that  in  these 
German  poems,  the  lyric  accompaniments,  mono- 
logues, complaints,  genial  observations,  are  much 
less  numerous  than  in  the  Odyssey ;  on  the  other 
hand,  every  peculiarity  of  the  chief  characters, 
which  determines  their  friendship  or  hostility  to 
others,  is  elaborated  with  special  vividness  and 
beauty. 

But  as  soon  as  one  conceives  of  these  powerful, 
shadowy  forms  of  legend  as  human  beings,  and  rep- 
resented to  human  beings  by  human  beings  on  the 
stage,  they  lose  the  dignity  and  magnitude  of  out- 
line, with  which  the  busied  imagination  has  clothed 
them.  Their  speeches,  which  within  epic  narrative 
produce  the  most  powerful  effects,  are  in  the  iam- 
bics of  the  stage,  circumscribed,  heavy,  common- 
place. Their  deeds  seem  to  us  crude,  barbarous, 
dreary,  indeed  quite  impossible  ;  they  seem  some- 
times like  the  old  water  sprites  and  goblins  of  an- 
cient folk-lore,  with  no  human  and  rational  soul. 
The  first  work  of  the  poet  must  be  a  transformation 
and  intensifying  of  characters,  by  which  they  may 
become  human  and  intelligible  to  us.  We  know 
how  attractive  such  labor  was  to  the  Greeks. 

Their  relation  to  the  material  in  their  old  heroic 
tales  was  peculiarly  favorable.  It  was  bound  to 
the  life  of  their  present  by  a  thousand  threads,  by 
local  traditions,  divine  service,  and  the  plastic  arts. 
The  more  liberal  culture  of  their  times  allowed  im- 


282      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

portant  changes  to  be  made ;  allowed  what  was 
transferred  to  them  to  be  treated  with  the  utmost 
freedom  as  raw  material.  And  yet,  the  history  of 
the  Attic  tragedy  is  the  history  of  an  inward  war- 
fare, which  great  poets  waged  with  a  realm  of  ma- 
terial that  so  much  the  more  violently  resisted  the 
fundamental  laws  of  dramatic  creation,  as  the 
actor's  art  developed,  and  the  demand  of  the  audi- 
ence for  a  richer  fulness  of  character  increased. 

Euripides  is  our  most  instructive  example  of  how 
the  Greek  tragedy  was  disorganized  by  the  internal 
opposition  between  its  field  of  material  and  the 
greater  requisites  which  the  art  of  representation 
gradually  brought  into  operation.  None  of  his 
great  predecessors  understands  better  than  he,  how 
to  imbue  the  persons  of  the  epic  legend  with  burn- 
ing, soul-devouring  passion.  None  has  ventured  to 
bring  dramatic  characters  so  realistically  near  the 
sensibility  and  the  understanding  of  his  audience  ; 
none  has  done  so  much  to  aid  the  actor's  art. 
Everywhere  in  his  pieces,  it  is  perceived  distinctly 
that  the  actor  and  the  needs  of  the  stage  have  won 
significance. 

But  the  treatment  of  his  roles,  effective  from 
the  actor's  point  of  view,  an  advance  in  itself, 
the  undeniable  right  of  the  acting  drama,  yet 
contributed  in  this  way  to  depreciate  his  pieces. 
What  was  wild  and  barbarous  in  the  action  must 
strike  as  repulsive,  if  persons  like  the  Athenians  of 
the  poet's  own  time,  were  made  to  think  and  feel 
and  act  like  ungovernable  Scythians.  His  Electra 


THE   CHARACTERS.  283 

is  an  oppressed  woman  from  a  noble  house,  who  in 
need,  has  married  a  poor  but  worthy  peasant,  and 
perceives  with  astonishment  that  beneath  his  tunic, 
a  brave  heart  beats  ;  but  we  can  scarcely  believe 
her  assurance  that  she  is  the  daughter  of  the  dead 
Agamemnon.  When  in  Iphigcnia  in  Aulis,  mother 
and  daughter,  entreating  aid,  place  their  hands  on 
the  chins  of  Achilles  and  Agamemnon,  and  taking 
an  oath,  according  to  the  custom  of  their  people, 
seek  to  soften  these  men  ;  and  when  Achilles 
refuses  his  hand  to  Clytemnestra,  who  greets  him, 
— this  imitative  invention  was  in  itself  an  excellent 
histrionic  motive;  but  it  stood  in  striking  contrast 
to  the  customary  movement  of  the  masked  and 
draped  persons ;  and  while  this  advance  of  the 
actor's  art  no  doubt  powerfully  enhanced  the  effects 
of  the  scenes,  in  the  eyes  of  the  audience,  it  reduced 
Iphigenia  at  the  same  time  to  an  oppressed  Athe- 
nian woman,  and  made  the  proposed  slaughtering 
of  her  more  strange  and  untrue. 

In  many  other  cases,  the  poet  yields  so  far 
to  the  desire  of  his  player  of  pathos  parts,  for 
great  song  effects,  that  suddenly  and  without 
motive,  he  interrupts  the  intelligible  and  agree- 
able course  of  his  action,  by  illuminating  some 
old  heroic  trait,  by  ragings,  by  child  murder  and 
the  like.  With  this  intrusion  of  opera-like  and 
spectacular  effects,  the  causative  connection  of 
events  becomes  a  subordinate  matter,  the  tragic 
momentum  is  lost,  the  persons  become  vessels 
for  different  kinds  of  feeling;  and  sportive  and 


284      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

sophistical,  they  are  freed  from  any  pressure  from 
their  past  lives.  In  almost  every  piece,  it  can  be 
felt  that  the  poet  finds  his  material  from  old  legends, 
torn  into  fragments  like  a  rotten  web,  through  a 
well  justified  climax  of  stage  effects,  and  entirely 
unserviceable  for  the  establishing  of  a  unified  dram- 
atic action.  If  pieces  from  other  contemporaries 
had  been  preserved  for  us,  we  should  probably  rec- 
ognize how  others  have  struggled  to  secure  a 
reconciliation  between  the  given  material  and  the 
vital  requisites  of  their  art.  It  must  be  repeated : 
what  detracts  from  the  poetic  greatness  of  Euri- 
pides is  not  specially  the  lack  of  morale,  of  the  man- 
ners and  habits  of  the  time,  so  peculiar  to  him  ;  but 
it  is  the  natural  and  inevitable  disorganization  which 
must  come  into  the  material  used  in  a  drama,  but 
not  essentially  dramatic.  Of  course,  the  repeated 
use  of  the  same  material  contributed  to  bring  the 
disadvantage  to  light ;  for  the  later  poets,  who 
came  upon  great  dramatic  treatment  of  almost  all 
the  legends,  had  pressing  occasion  to  win  their  audi- 
ences by  something  new,  something  charming,  and 
they  found  this  in  setting  a  new  and  higher  task  for 
the  art  of  the  actor ;  but  this  adequate  advance 
hastened  the  destruction  of  the  action,  and  thereby, 
of  the  roles. 

We  Germans  are  far  more  unfavorable  to  the 
epic  legend  ;  it  is  for  us  a  world  in  ruins.  Even 
where  our  science  has  spread  knowledge  of  it, 
throughout  broad  circles,  as  of  Homer  and  The 
Nibelungen,  the  knowledge  and  the  enjoyment  of  it 


THE   CHARACTERS.  285 

are  the  prerogative  of  the  learned.  Our  stage  has 
become  much  more  realistic  than  that  of  the 
Greeks,  and  demands  in  the  characters  far  richer 
individual  traits,  an  import  not  painfully  wounding 
to  our  sensibilities.  If  upon  our  stage,  Tristan  had 
married  one  woman  to  conceal  his  relations  with 
another  woman,  the  actor  of  his  part  would  incur 
the  danger  of  being  pelted  with  apples  from  the 
gallery,  as  a  low-lived  monster ;  and  the  bridal 
night  of  Brunhild,  so  effectively  portrayed  in  the 
epic,  will  always  awaken  on  the  stage  a  dangerous 
mood  in  the  minds  of  the  spectators.  To  us  Ger- 
mans, history  has  become  a  more  important  source 
of  dramatic  subjects  than  the  legend.  For  a 
majority  of  the  younger  poets,  the  history  of  the 
Middle  Ages  is  the  magic  fountain  from  which  they 
draw  their  plays.  And  yet,  in  the  life  of  our 
German  ancestors,  there  lies  something  difficult  to 
understand,  something  that  hides  the  heroes  of  the 
Middle  Ages  as  with  a  mist,  —  indeed  still  more 
the  circumstances  of  the  people, —  and  that  makes  a 
princely  scion  in  the  time  of  Otto  the  Great,  less 
transparent  than  a  Roman  prince  in  the  time  of  the 
Second  Punic  War.  The  lack  of  independence  of 
the  man  is  far  greater  ;  every  individual  is  more 
strongly  influenced  by  the  views  and  customs  of  the 
circle  in  which  he  moves.  The  impressions  that 
fall  upon  the  soul  from  without,  are  quickly  covered 
with  a  new  tissue,  given  a  new  shape,  receive  a  new 
color,  by  the  exercise  of  an  active  imagination. 
Indeed,  the  activity  of  sense  is  incisive,  energetic  ; 


286      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

but  the  life  of  nature,  the  person's  own  life 
and  the  impulse  from  others,  are  conceived  far  less 
according  to  an  intelligible  consistency  of  appear- 
ances, than  transformed  according  to  the  intellect- 
ual demands.  The  egotism  of  the  individual 
easily  rears  itself,  and  assumes  the  attitude  of 
battle  ;  just  as  ready  is  its  submission  to  a  superior 
force.  The  original  simplicity  of  a  child  may  be 
combined  in  the  same  man  with  effective  cunning 
and  with  vices  which  we  are  accustomed  to  con- 
sider the  outgrowth  of  a  corrupt  civilization.  And 
this  combination  as  well  as  the  union  of  the — • 
apparently  —  strongest  contradictions  in  feeling  and 
way  of  dealing,  are  found  in  the  leaders  of  the 
people  as  well  as  among  ordinary  men  and  women. 
It  is  evident  that  in  this  way,  the  judgment  concern- 
ing characters,  their  worth  or  worthlessness,  their 
individual  actions,  concerning  moods  and  motives  of 
actions,  is  rendered  difficult.  We  are  to  judge 
the  man  according  to  the  civilization  and  moral 
feeling  of  his  time,  and  judge  his  time  according  to 
the  civilization  and  morals  of  our  own. 

Let  it  be  tried  to  make  a  mental  picture  of 
the  average  morality  among  the  people  in  any 
one  of  the  earlier  centuries  of  the  Middle 
Ages,  and  it  will  be  perceived  how  difficult 
this  is.  Could  we  judge  from  the  penalties 
which  the  oldest  popular  justice  inflicted  upon  all 
kinds  of  abominable  crimes,  or  from  the  horrible 
practices  at  the  Court  of  the  Merovingians  ?  There 
was  still  almost  nothing  of  what  we  call  public 


THE  CHARACTERS.  287 

opinion,  and  we  can  say  with  positiveness  that  the 
historians  give  us  the  impression  of  men  who  merit 
confidence.  When  a  royal  scion  arose  in  repeated 
rebellion  against  his  father,  to  what  extent  was  he 
justified  or  pardoned  because  of  the  notions  of  his 
time,  or  his  own  inmost  motives  ?  Even  in  the  case 
of  events  which  seem  very  clear  and  are  received 
by  us  in  a  dazzling  light,  we  perceive  a  lack  in  our 
comprehension,  not  only  because  we  know  too 
little  of  that  time,  but  also  because  we  do  not 
always  understand  what  has  come  down  to  us,  as 
the  dramatic  poet  must  understand  it,  in  its  causative 
connections  and  in  its  origin  in  the  germ  of  a  human 
life. 

Whoever  would  not  more  carefully  investigate 
the  real  relations  and  the  historical  character  of  his 
hero,  but  would  only  make  use  of  his  name,  in  order 
to  provide  some  events  of  his  time,  with  bold 
observations  on  the  stage,  according  to  the  report  of 
a  convenient  historical  work,  would  avoid  every 
difficulty.  But  he  would,  in  fact,  hardly  find  a 
dramatic  material.  For  this  noble  mass  of  dramatic 
material  is  embedded  in  the  rock  of  history,  and 
almost  always  only  where  the  private,  familiar  life 
of  the  heroic  character  begins  ;  there  one  must 
know  how  to  look  for  it. 

If  one  really  takes  pains  to  become  acquainted 
as  well  as  possible  with  the  heroes  of  the  distant 
past,  one  discovers  in  their  nature  something  very 
undramatic.  For  as  it  is  characteristic  of  those 
epic  poems,  it  is  characteristic  also  of  historical  life, 


288      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

that  the  inward  struggle  of  man,  his  feelings,  his 
thoughts,  the  existence  of  his  will,  have  found 
from  the  hero  himself  no  expression  ;  nor  have 
they  found  expression  from  an  observer.  The 
people,  its  poets,  its  historians,  see  the  man  sharply 
and  well  at  the  moment  of  his  deed  ;  they  per- 
ceive—  at  least  the  Germans  —  with  great  pene- 
tration, what  is  characteristic  of  the  expressions  of 
his  life,  as  connected  with  emotion,  with  exaltation, 
with  caprice,  with  disinclination.  But  only  the  mo- 
ments in  which  his  life  turns  toward  the  external, 
are  attractive,  enchanting,  intelligible,  to  that  time. 
Even  speech  has  but  a  meager  expression  for  the 
inner  processes  up  to  the  deed;  even  passionate  ex- 
citement is  best  enjoyed  in  the  effect  which  it  has 
upon  others,  and  in  the  light  which  it  throws  upon  the 
environment.  For  the  intellectual  conditions,  and  the 
reaction  which  the  occurrences  have  upon  the  sen- 
sibilities and  character  of  the  man,  every  technique 
of  representation  fails,  interest  fails.  Even  the  de- 
piction of  apparent  characteristic  peculiarities,  as 
well  as  a  full  elaboration  of  the  occurrence,  is  not 
frequent  in  the  narrative  ;  a  comparatively  dry 
rehearsal  of  events  is  interrupted  more  or  less  by 
anecdotes,  in  which  a  single  vital  trait  of  impor- 
tance to  a  contemporary,  comes  to  view, —  here  a 
striking  word,  there  a  mighty  deed.  Preferably  in 
such  legends,  remain  the  recollections  which  the 
people  preserve  of  their  leader  and  his  deeds.  We 
know  that  till  after  the  Reformation,  indeed,  till 
after  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  this  same  no- 


THE   CHARACTERS.  289 

tion  was  not  infrequent  among  educated  people,  and 
that  it  has  not  disappeared  yet  from  among  our 
people. 

The  poverty  of  dramatic  life  makes  difficult  to 
the  poet  the  understanding  and  the  portrayal  of 
every  hero.  But  in  the  temper  of  our  ancestors, 
there  was  something  very  peculiar,  something  which 
made  their  character  at  times  quite  mysterious. 
Already  in  the  most  ancient  heroic  times,  they  evince 
in  character,  in  speech,  in  poetry,  in  customs,  the 
inclination  to  make  prevalent  a  peculiar  subtle  intro- 
spection and  interpretation.  Not  the  things  them- 
selves, but  what  they  signify,  was  the  chief  thing  to 
the  ancestors  of  our  thinkers.  The  images  of  the 
external  world  press  multitudinously  into  the  soul  of 
the  old  Germans,  who  are  more  versatile,  quicker  to 
recognize,  endowed  with  greater  receptivity,  than 
any  other  people  on  earth.  But  not  in  the  beauti- 
ful, quiet,  clear  manner  of  the  Greeks,  nor  with  the 
sure,  practical,  limited  one-sidedness  of  the  Romans, 
did  what  was  received  mirror  itself  again  in  speech 
and  action  ;  they  worked  it  over  slowly  and  quietly ; 
and  what  flowed  from  them  had  a  strong  subjective 
coloring,  and  an  addition  from  their  own  spirit, 
which  we  might,  in  the  earliest  times,  call  lyric. 

Therefore  the  oldest  poetry  of  the  Germans  stands 
in  most  striking  contrast  to  the  epic  of  the  Greeks  ; 
its  chief  affair  is  not  the  rich,  full  narrative  of  the 
action,  but  a  sharp  relief  of  single,  brilliant  traits, 
the  connecting  of  the  force  to  an  elaborate  image, 
a  representation  in  short,  abrupt  waves,  upon  which 


2go      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

is  recognized  the  excited  mind  of  the  narrator.  So 
in  the  characters,  the  defiant  self-seeking,  combined 
with  a  surrender  to  ideal  perceptions,  has  given  to 
the  Germans  since  prehistoric  time,  a  striking  im- 
print, and  has  made  themselves,  rather  than  their 
physical  power  and  martial  rage,  a  terror  to  the 
Romans.  No  other  popular  morality  has  conceived 
of  woman  so  chastely  and  nobly  ;  no  pagan 
faith  has  overcome  the  fear  of  death,  as  the  German 
faith  has  ;  for  to  die  on  the  battlefield  is  the  Ger- 
man hero's  honor  and  joy.  Through  this  promi- 
nence of  spirit  and  courage,  of  ideal  perception  and 
feeling,  the  characters  of  German  heroes  very  early 
receive  in  life,  as  in  the  epic,  a  less  simple  compo- 
sition, an  original,  sometimes  a  wonderful  stamp, 
which  lends  them,  now  a  remarkable  greatness  and 
depth,  now  an  adventurous  and  unreasonable  ap- 
pearance. 

Let  no  one  compare  the  poetic  value  of  deli- 
neation, but  the  foundations  of  character,  in  the 
heroes  of  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey,  with  the  heroes 
in  the  Nibelungen  Lied.  To  the  bravest  Greek,  death 
remained  a  terror  ;  the  danger  of  battle  weighed  him 
down  ;  it  was  not  dishonorable  to  him,  in  one  sense, 
to  slay  a  sleeping  or  unarmed  foe  ;  it  was  by  no 
means  the  least  renown  prudently  to  avoid  the  dan- 
ger of  conflict,  and  strike  from  behind  an  unsus- 
pecting victim.  The  German  hero,  on  the  contrary, 
the  same  one  who  from  fidelity  to  his  commander 
performs  the  most  atrocious  act  which  a  German 
can,  and  cunningly  hits  an  unarmed  man  from  be- 


THE  CHARACTERS.  291 

hind, —  just  such  a  one  can  avoid  death  and  destruc- 
tion for  himself,  for  his  lord  and  for  his  posterity,  if 
he  only  announces  at  the  right  time  that  danger  is 
at  hand.  Supernatural  beings  have  prophesied  de- 
struction for  him  and  his  friends,  if  the  momentous 
journey  is  continued  ;  yet  he  thrusts  back  into  the 
stream  the  boats  which  make  a  return  possible  ; 
again,  at  the  king's  court,  where  death  threatens 
him,  a  word  to  the  benevolent  king,  an  honest  an- 
swer to  a  serious  question,  may  divert  the  worst 
from  him,  but  he  keeps  silent.  Still  more  :  he  and 
his  friends  deride  and  enrage  his  embittered  ene- 
mies ;  and  with  the  certain  prospect  of  death,  they 
playfully  challenge  and  incite  to  bloody  strife. 

To  the  Greek,  to  every  other  people  of  antiquity, 
possibly  with  the  exception  of  the  Gauls,  such  a 
kind  of  heroism  would  appear  thoroughly  unearthly 
and  unreasonable  ;  but  it  was  true  German,  the  wild, 
dark  expression,  the  character  of  a  nation  in  which 
to  the  individual,  his  honor  and  his  pride  were  of 
more  account  than  his  life.  Not  otherwise  is  this 
consideration  with  historical  heroes.  The  ideals 
which  rule  their  lives,  however  unreasonable  they 
were  long  before  the  development  of  chivalry,  the 
duty  of  honor,  of  fidelity,  the  feeling  of  manly 
pride  and  of  one's  own  dignity,  contempt  for  death, 
and  love  for  individual  men,  often  had  a  strength 
and  power  which  we  can  scarcely  appreciate,  and  do 
not  always  recognize  as  the  governing  motive. 

Thus  swings  the  soul  of  the  German  in  the 
ancient  times,  in  a  bondage  which  to  us  is  often  no 


292      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

longer  recognizable ;  pious  surrender  and  longing, 
superstition,  and  fidelity  to  duty,  a  secret  magic 
word,  or  secret  oath,  advanced  his  resolution  to 
deeds  which  we  try  vainly  to  explain  on  reasonable 
grounds  taken  from  our  civilization. 

And  into  such  a  disposition  eventuated,  in  the 
Middle  Ages,  the  great  cycle  of  moods,  laws,  and 
fantastic  reveries,  which  surged  in  with  Christendom. 
While  on  one  side,  the  incisive  contrast  in  which  the 
gentle  faith  of  renunciation  stood  to  the  rude  incli- 
nations of  a  victorious,  war-like  people,  the  contra- 
diction between  duty  and  inclination,  between 
external  and  internal  life,  increased  greatly,  it  corre- 
sponded on  the  other  side  in  a  striking  manner,  to 
the  necessity  of  giving  one's  self  entirely  to  great 
ideas,  which  the  German  had  long  practiced.  When 
instead  of  Wuotan  and  the  slain  Ase-god,  the  Father 
of  the  Christians  and  his  only  begotten  Son  came ; 
when  in  place  of  the  battle-virgins  the  hosts  of  The 
Holy  One  came,  the  life  after  death  received  a  new 
consecration  and  a  more  sincere  significance.  And 
to  the  old  powers,  which  in  quietness  had  controlled 
human  volition,  to  the  magic  word,  to  the  approach- 
ing animal,  to  the  drinking-bout,  to  the  premoni- 
tions of  heathen  priests,  and  the  prophesies  of  wise 
women,  came  the  demands  of  the  new  church,  its 
blessing  and.  its  curse,  its  vows  and  its  shrifts,  the 
priests  and  the  monks.  Following  close  on  rude, 
reckless  dissipation,  came  passionate  repentance, 
and  the  strictest  asceticism.  Near  the  houses  of 
beautiful  women,  were  reared  the  cloisters  of  the 


THE   CHARACTERS.  293 

nuns.  How,  since  the  dominion  of  the  Christian 
faith,  characters  have  been  drawn  in  their,  deepest 
principles ;  how  perception  and  motives  of  action 
have  become  more  manifold,  more  profound  and 
artistic,  is  shown,  for  instance,  by  the  numerous  fig- 
ures from  the  time  of  the  Saxon  Emperor,  where 
pious  devotion  was  practiced  by  the  most  distin- 
guished persons,  and  men  and  women  were  driven 
hither  and  thither,  now  by  efforts  to  win  the  world 
for  themselves,  now  by  the  penitent  wish  to  recon- 
cile heaven  to  themselves. 

Any  one  who  has  ever  felt  the  difficulty  of 
understanding  the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages,  who 
were  formed  by  the  thoughtful  nature  of  the  Ger- 
mans and  by  the  old  church,  will  complete  these 
brief  suggestions  in  every  direction. 

Here,  therefore,  a  former  example  is  repeated, 
but  from  another  point  of  view.  What  was  working 
in  the  soul  of  Henry  IV.  as  he  stood  in  the  peni- 
tent's frock  by  the  castle  wall  of  Canossa?  In 
order  that  the  poet  may  answer  this  question  by  a 
noble  art  effect,  he  will  first  let  the  historian  tell 
what  he  knows  about  it;  and  he  will  learn  with 
astonishment  how  different  the  conception  of  the 
situation,  how  uncertain  and  scanty  the  received 
account,  and  how  troublesome  and  difficult  it  is  to 
sound  the  heart  of  his  hero. 

That  he  did  not  go  to  the  pope  with  inward  con- 
trition, this  haughty  powerful  man,  who  hated,  in 
the  Romish  priest,  his  most  dangerous  opponent,  is 
easy  to  comprehend.  That  he  had  long  revolved, 


294      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

in  his  rebellious  mind  the  bitter  necessity  of  this 
step,  and  had  not  put  on  the  penitent's  garment 
without  a  grim  mental  reservation,  is  to  be  assumed. 
But  he  came  just  as  little  as  a  crafty  politician,  who 
humiliated  himself  by  a  cool  calculation,  because 
he  perceived  a  false  step  of  his  opponent,  and  saw 
growing  from  this  surrender,  the  fruits  of  future 
victory.  For  Henry  was  a  Christian  of  the  Middle 
Ages.  However  intensely  he  hated  Gregory,  the 
curse  of  the  church  certainly  had  in  it  something 
uncomfortable,  something  frightful ;  to  his  God,  and 
to  the  heaven  of  the  Christian,  there  was  no  other 
way  than  through  the  church.  Gregory  sat  on  the 
bridge  to  heaven ;  and  if  he  forbade,  the  angels,  the 
new  battle-virgins  of  the  Christian,  would  not  lead 
the  dead  warrior  before  the  throne  of  the  Father, 
but  would  thrust  him  into  the  abyss  of  the  old 
dragon.  The  pope  writes  that  the  emperor  has 
wept  much,  and  besought  his  mercy,  and  that  the 
attendants  of  the  pope  have  with  sobs  and  tears 
witnessed  the  emperor's  penance.  Was  the  emperor 
firm  in  the  faith  that  the  pope  had  the  right  thus  to 
torment  him?  This  influence  of  the  ecclesiastical 
conscience  upon  worldly  aims,  this  adventurous  and 
uncertain  mingling  of  opposites,  now  pride,  higher 
thought,  enduring,  imperturbable  power,  which  we 
consider  almost  superhuman,  and  again  a  lament- 
able emptiness  and  weakness,  which  seems  con- 
temptible to  us, — this  offers  the  poet  no  easily 
accomplished  task.  Of  course  he  is  master  of  his 
subject ;  he  can  transform  the  historical  character 


THE  CHARACTERS.  295 

at  will,  according  to  the  needs  of  his  work.  It  is 
possible  that  the  real  Henry  stood  before  the  wall  of 
Canossa,  like  an  ungoverned  and  vicious  knave,  who 
was  to  undergo  a  severe  chastising.  What  did  the 
poet  care  for  that?  But  just  as  binding  as  possible, 
is  his  duty  to  fathom  to  its  deepest  recesses  the  real 
nature  of  the  emperor.  Not  only  the  sad  penitent, 
but  the  cold  politician,  will  become  falsities  under 
such  an  examination.  The  poet  has  to  form  the 
character  of  the  prince  out  of  component  parts,  for 
which  he  does  not  find  in  his  own  mind  the  corre- 
sponding intuitions,  and  which  he  has  to  convert 
into  intuitions  and  warm  perceptions  through  reflec- 
tion. There  are  few  princes  of  the  Middle  Ages 
who  do  not  appear,  in  the  essential  occurrences  of 
their  lives,  and  measured  by  the  standard  of  our 
civilization  and  habits,  either  as  short-sighted 
dunces,  or  conscienceless  scoundrels  —  not  seldom 
as  both.  The  historian  performs  his  difficult  task 
in  his  unpretentious  manner;  he  seeks  to  under- 
stand the  connections  of  their  time,  and  tells  us 
honestly  where  his  understanding  ceases.  The  poet 
draws  these  adventurous  persons  imperatively  into 
the  clear  light  of  our  day ;  he  fills  their  being  with 
warm  life;  he  endows  them  with  modern  speech, 
with  a  good  share  of  reason  and  of  the  culture  of 
our  times ;  and  he  forgets  that  the  action  in  which 
he  has  them  move,  is  taken  from  a  former  age  and 
can  not  be  so  much  transformed,  and  that  it  accords 
extremely  ill  with  the  higher  human  endowments 
given  his  characters. 


296      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  historical  materials  from  the  dim  past,  and 
from  the  little  known  periods  of  our  national 
existence,  allure  our  young  poets,  as  once  the  epic 
materials  allured  Euripides :  they  mislead  to  the 
spectacular,  as  the  epic  did  to  declamation.  Now 
their  figures  are  not  for  this  reason  to  be  laid 
aside  as  useless  ;  but  the  poet  will  ask  whether  the 
transformation  which  he  is  bound  to  undertake  with 
every  character  of  former  times,  is  not  possibly  so 
great  that  all  similarity  to  the  historical  person 
disappears,  and  whether  the  irrepressible  presump- 
tions of  the  action  are  not  inconsistent  with  his  free 
creation  of  character.  This  will  certainly  be  some- 
times the  case. 

Not  less  worthy  of  note  is  the  conflict  which  the 
poet  must  wage  in  his  roles,  with  what  as  nature,  he 
has  to  idealize.  His  task  is  to  give  greater  expres- 
sion to  greater  passion ;  as  an  adjunct  in  this,  he  has 
the  actor, — the  passionate  emphasis  of  the  voice, 
of  figure,  of  pantomime,  of  gesture.  Despite  all 
this  abundant  means,  he  may  almost  never,  and  just 
in  the  more  exalted  moments  of  passion,  use  the 
corresponding  appearances  of  real  life  without  great 
changes,  however  strongly  and  beautifully  and 
effectively,  in  powerful  natures,  a  natural  passion 
expresses  itself,  and  however  great  an  impression  it 
may  make  on  the  accidental  observer.  On  the 
stage,  the  appearance  is  to  have  its  effect  in  the 
distance.  Even  in  a  little  theater,  a  comparatively 
large  auditorium  is  to  be  filled  with  the  expression 
of  passion.  Just  the  finest  accents,  but  of  real  feel- 


THE  CHARACTERS.  297 

ing  in  the  voice,  glance,  even  in  carriage,  are,  on 
account  of  the  distance,  not  at  all  so  distinct  to  the 
audience  and  enchanting  as  they  are  in  real  life. 
And  further,  it  is  the  task  of  the  drama  to  make 
such  laboring  of  passion  intelligible  and  impressive 
at  every  moment  ;  for  it  is  not  the  passion  itself 
which  produces  the  effect,  but  the  dramatic  portrayal 
of  it  by  means  of  speech  and  action  ;  it  must  always 
be  the  endeavor  of  the  characters  on  the  stage  to 
turn  their  inward  being  toward  the  spectator.  The 
poet  must  then  make  choice  for  effects.  The 
transient  thoughts  that  flit  through  the  mind  of  the 
impassioned  one,  conclusions  arrived  at  with  the 
rapidity  of  lightning,  the  varying  emotions  of  the 
soul  in  great  numbers,  which  now  less  distinctly, 
now  more  animatedly,  come  into  view, —  to  all  these 
in  their  disordered  fulness,  their  rapid  course,  art 
can  not  often  afford  even  imperfect  expression. 
For  every  idea,  for  every  strong  emotion,  there  is 
needed  a  certain  number  of  words  and  gestures  ; 
their  union  by  means  of  transition  or  sharp  con- 
trast demands  a  purposed  play ;  every  single 
moment  presents  itself  more  broadly,  a  careful 
progressive  rise  must  take  place, —  in  order  that 
the  highest  effect  be  attained.  Thus  dramatic  art 
must  constantly  listen  to  nature,  but  must  by  no 
means  copy ;  nay,  it  must  mingle  with  the  single 
features  which  nature  affords,  something  else  that 
nature  docs  not  offer,  and  this  as  well  in  the 
speeches  as  in  the  acting.  For  poetic  composition, 
one  of  the  most  ready  helps  is  the  wit  of  com- 


298      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

parison,  the  color  of  the  picture.  This  oldest 
ornament  of  speech  comes  by  natural  necessity, 
everywhere,  into  the  discourse  of  men,  where  the 
soul,  in  a  lofty  mood  freely  raises  her  wing.  To  the 
inspired  orator,  as  to  the  poet,  to  every  people,  to 
every  civilization,  comparison  and  imagery  are  the 
immediate  expressions  of  excited  feeling,  of  power- 
ful, spirited  creation.  But  now  it  is  the  duty  of  the 
poet  to  represent  with  the  greatest  freedom  and 
elevation  the  greatest  embarrassment  of  his  persons 
in  their  passions.  It  will  also  be  inevitable  that  his 
characters,  even  in  the  moments  of  highest  passion, 
evince  far  more  of  this  inward  creative  power  of 
speech,  of  unrestrained  power  and  mastery  of  lan- 
guage, expression,  and  gesture,  than  they  ever  do  in 
natural  circumstances.  This  freedom  of  soul  is 
necessary  to  them,  and  the  spectator  demands  it. 
And  yet  here  lies  the  great  danger  to  the  poet,  that 
his  style  may  seem  too  artificial  for  the  passion. 
Our  greatest  poets  have  often  used  poetic  means 
and  devices  with  such  lavishness  in  moments  of 
intense  passion,  as  to  offend  good  taste.  It  is  well 
known  that  Shakespeare  yields  too  often  to  the 
inclination  of  his  time,  and  in  his  pathetic  passages 
makes  use  of  mythological  comparisons  and 
splendid  imagery ;  on  this  account,  there  often 
appears  in  the  language  of  his  characters  a  bombast 
which  we  have  to  forget  in  the  multitude  of  beauti- 
ful significant  features,  idealized  from  nature.  The 
great  poets  stand  nearer  German  culture  ;  but  even 
in  their  works,  —  among  others  Schiller's,  —  a  fine 


THE  CHARACTERS.  299 

rhetoric  intrudes  upon  pathos,  which  is  not  propi- 
tious to  an  unbiased  apprehension. 

If  in  every  expression  of  passion,  there  is  percep- 
tible a  contradiction  between  nature  and  art,  this 
occurs  most  in  the  case  of  the  most  secret  and 
genuine  feelings.  Here  again,  the  love  scene  must 
be  once  more  recalled.  In  real  life,  the  expression 
of  this  sweet  passion  which  presses  from  one  soul  to 
another,  is  so  tender,  is  in  so  few  words,  is  so 
modest,  that  in  art  it  brings  one  into  despair.  A 
quick  gleam  from  the  eye,  a  soft  tone  of  the  voice, 
may  express  more  to  the  loved  one  than  all  speech. 
Just  the  immediate  expression  of  tender  feeling 
needs  words  only  as  an  accessory ;  the  moments  of 
the  so-called  declaration  of  love,  frequently  almost 
without  words  and  with  action  scarcely  visible,  will 
escape  the  notice  of  one  standing  at  a  distance. 
Only  through  numerous  devices  can  the  highest 
skill  of  the  poet  and  the  actor  replace  for  the  spec- 
tator the  eloquent  silence  and  the  beautiful  secret 
vibrations  of  passion.  Right  here,  indeed,  poets  and 
actors  must  use  an  abundance  of  speech  and  action 
which  is  improbable  in  nature.  The  actor  may,  of 
course,  enhance  and  supplement  the  language  of  the 
poet,  through  tone  and  gesture  ;  but  that  he  secure 
these  enhancing  effects,  the  language  of  the  poet 
must  lead  him,  and  to  a  high  degree  in  conformity 
with  a  purpose,  furnish  the  motive  for  the  effects  of 
the  actor's  art ;  and  therefore  the  actor  requires  also 
the  creative  activity  of  the  poet,  which  gives,  not  an 


300      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

imitation  of  reality,  but  something  quite  different, — 
the  artistic. 

In  the  face  of  these  difficulties  which  the  expres- 
sion of  higher  passion  offers,  if  one  dared  to  advise 
the  poet,  the  best  advice  would  be,  to  remain  as  ex- 
act and  true  to  life  as  his  talents  would  allow,  to 
compress  the  single  moments  to  a  strong  climax,  and 
to  expand  as  little  as  possible  the  embellishments  of 
reflection,  comparison,  imagery.  For  while  these 
give  fulness  to  the  lines,  they  too  easily  cover  up 
desultoriness  and  poverty  of  invention.  If  every- 
where, constant  and  exact  observation  of  nature  is 
indispensable  to  the  dramatic  poet,  it  is  most  indis- 
pensable in  the  delineation  of  violent  emotion ;  but 
the  poet  must  know  most  surely  that  he  is  here 
least  of  all  to  imitate  nature. 

Another  difficulty  arises  for  the  poet  through  the 
inner  contrast  into  which  his  art  of  creation  comes, 
with  the  art  of  his  colleague,  the  actor.  The  poet 
does  not  perceive  the  perturbations  of  his  characters 
as  the  reader  perceives  the  words  of  the  drama,  nor 
as  the  actor  apprehends  his  role.  Character,  scene, 
every  force,  is  presented  to  him  in  the  mighty  rap- 
ture of  creation,  in  such  a  way  that  the  significance 
of  each  for  the  whole  is  perfectly  clear ;  while  all 
that  has  gone  before,  all  that  comes  after,  vibrate  as 
if  in  a  gentle  harmony  in  his  mind.  What  reveals 
the  real  life  of  his  characters,  what  holds  spell- 
bound in  the  action,  the  effect  of  the  scenes, —  he 
perceives  as  alluring,  and  powerfully  so,  perhaps, 
long  before  they  have  found  expression  in  words. 


THE   CHARACTERS.  301 

The  expression  which  he  creates  for  them,  often 
gives  back  but  imperfectly  to  his  own  apprehen- 
sion, the  beauty  and  might  with  which  they  were 
endowed  in  his  mind.  While  he  is  concerned  in 
embodying  in  words  the  spiritual  essence  of  his 
persons,  and  in  creating  for  them  an  outward  form, 
the  effect  of  the  words  which  he  writes  being  only 
imperfectly  clear,  he  accustoms  himself  but  gradu- 
ally to  their  sound;  moreover,  the  enclosed  space 
of  the  stage,  the  external  appearance  of  his  persons, 
the  effect  of  a  gesture,  of  a  tone  of  voice,  he  feels 
only  incidentally,  now  more,  now  less  distinctly. 
On  the  whole,  he  who  creates  through  speech, 
stands  nearer  to  the  demands  of  the  reader  or  the 
hearer,  than  to  the  demands  of  the  actor,  especially 
if  he  himself  is  not  proficient  in  the  actor's  art. 
The  effects  which  he  produces,  then,  correspond 
now  more  to  the  requirements  of  the  reader,  now 
more  to  those  of  the  actor. 

But  the  poet  of  greater  feeling  and  perception 
must  give  a  full  and  strong  impression  through 
speech ;  and  the  effects  which  one  soul  produces  on 
another  are  brought  about  thus :  its  internal  power 
breaks  forth  in  a  number  of  speech-waves,  which  rise 
higher  and  mightier,  and  beat  upon  the  receptive 
mind.  This  demands  a  certain  time,  and  with 
briefer,  or  more  powerful  treatment,  a  certain 
breadth  of  elaboration.  The  actor,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  his  art,  requires  the  stream  of  convinc- 
ing, seductive  speech.  Indeed,  he  needs  the  strong 
expression  of  passion,  not  always  through  speech. 


302      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

His  aim  is  to  attain  something  through  other  means, 
the  effectiveness  of  which  the  poet  does  not  appre- 
hend so  clearly.  By  means  of  a  gesture  of  fright, 
of  hatred,  of  contempt,  he  may  often  express  more 
than  the  poet  can  with  the  most  effective  words. 
Impatient,  he  will  always  feel  the  temptation  to 
make  use  of  the  best  means  of  his  own  art.  The 
laws  of  stage  effects  are  for  him  and  the  audience 
sometimes  different  from  those  which  are  found  in 
the  soul  of  the  creating  poet.  In  the  struggle  of 
passion,  a  word,  a  glance,  is  often  specially  adapted 
to  bring  out  the  strongest  pantomime  effects  for  the 
actor ;  all  the  subsequent  mental  processes  ex- 
pressed in  his  speech,  however  poetically  true  in 
themselves,  will  appear  to  him  and  to  his  audience 
only  as  a  lengthening.  In  this  way,  much  is  un- 
necessary in  acting  which  is  fully  justified  in  writing 
and  reading. 

That  the  actor,  for  his  part,  has  the  task  of  care- 
fully following  the  poet,  and  as  much  as  possible 
working  out  the  poet's  purposed  effects,  even  with 
self-renunciation,  is  a  matter  of  course.  But  not 
seldom  his  right  is  greater  than  that  of  the  poet's 
lines,  for  the  reason  that  his  equipment,  voice,  in- 
vention, technique,  even  his  nerves,  place  restric- 
tions upon  him  which  the  poet  does  not  find  cogent. 
But  with  this  right  which  the  actor  has,  in  view  of 
his  labor,  the  poet  will  have  the  more  difficulties  to 
overcome  the  further  he  keeps  aloof  from  the  stage, 
and  the  less  distinct  to  him  in  single  moments  of  his 
creative  activity  is  his  stage-picture  of  the  charac- 


THE  CHARACTERS.  303 

ters.  He  will  also  be  obliged  to  make  clear  to  him- 
self through  observation  and  reflection,  how  he  may 
plan  and  present  his  characters  rightly  to  the  actor 
for  the  best  stage  effects.  He  must  not,  however, 
always  conform  to  the  actor's  art.  And  since  it  is 
his  duty,  at  his  desk,  to  be  as  much  as  possible  the 
guardian  of  the  histrionic  artist,  he  must  study  most 
earnestly  the  essential  laws  of  histrionic  art. 

III. 
MINOR  RULES. 

The  same  laws  which  have  been  enumerated  for 
the  action,  apply  also  to  the  characters  of  the  stage. 
These,  too,  must  possess  dramatic  unity,  probability, 
importance  and  magnitude,  and  be  fitted  for  a  strong 
and  progressive  expression  of  dramatic  life. 

The  persons  of  the  drama  must  exhibit  only  that 
side  of  human  nature,  by  which  the  action  is  ad- 
vanced and  given  motive.  No  miser,  no  hypocrite, 
is  always  miserly,  always  hypocritical ;  no  scoundrel 
betrays  his  degraded  soul  in  every  act  he  performs ; 
no  one  always  acts  consistently ;  the  thoughts 
which  contend  with  each  other  in  the  human  mind, 
are  of  infinite  variety  ;  the  directions  in  which 
spirit,  mind,  volition,  express  themselves,  are  infi- 
nitely different.  But  the  drama,  like  every  form  of 
art,  has  no  right  to  select  with  freedom  from  the 
sum  of  all  the  things  which  characterize  a  man's 
life,  and  combine  them  ;  only  what  serves  the  idea 
and  the  action  belongs  to  art.  But  only  such  se- 


304      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

lectcd  impulses  in  the  character  as  belong  together 
and  are  easily  intelligible,  will  serve  the  action. 
Richard  III.  of  England  was  a  bloody  and  unscru- 
pulous despot ;  but  he  was  not  such  always  nor 
toward  everyone  ;  he  was,  besides,  a  politic  prince  ; 
and  it  is  possible,  according  to  history,  that  his 
reign  appears,  in  some  directions,  a  blessing  to  En- 
gland. If  a  poet  sets  himself  the  task  of  showing 
the  bloody  rigor  and  falseness  of  a  highly  endowed, 
misanthropic  hero-nature,  embodied  in  this  char- 
acter, it  is  understood  that  the  traits  of  moderation 
and  perhaps  of  benevolence,  which  are  found  to 
some  extent  in  the  life  of  this  prince,  the  poet  dare 
accept,  only  so  far  as  they  support  the  fundamental 
trait  of  character  needed  for  this  idea.  And  as  the 
number  of  characterizing  moments  which  he  can 
introduce  at  all,  is,  in  proportion  to  the  reality,  ex- 
ceedingly small,  every  individual  trait  bears  an 
entirely  different  relation  to  the  aggregate  than  it 
bears  in  reality.  But  whatever  is  necessary  in  the 
chief  figures  is  of  value  in  the  accessory  figures. 
It  is  understood  that  the  texture  of  their  souls  must 
be  so  much  the  more  easily  understood,  the  less  the 
space  which  the  poet  has  left  for  them.  The  dra- 
matic poet  will  scarcely  commit  great  mistakes  in 
this.  Even  to  unskilled  talent,  the  one  side  from 
which  it  has  to  illuminate  its  figures,  is  accustomed 
to  be  very  distinct. 

The  first  law,  that  of  unity,  admits  of  still  an- 
other application  to  the  characters  :  The  drama 
must  have  only  one  chief  hero,  about  whom  all  the 


THE  CHARACTERS.  305 

persons,  however  great  their  number,  arrange  them- 
selves in  different  gradations.  The  drama  has  a 
thoroughly  monarchic  arrangement  ;  the  unity  of 
its  action  is  -essentially  dependent  on  this,  that  the 
action  is  perfected  about  one  dominant  character. 
But  also  for  a  sure  effect,  the  first  condition  is  that 
the  interest  of  the  spectator  must  be  directed  mostly 
toward  one  person,  and  he  must  learn  as  early  as 
possible  who  is  to  occupy  his  attention  before  all 
other  characters.  Since  the  highest  dramatic  pro- 
cesses of  but  few  persons  can  be  exhibited  in  broad 
elaboration,  the  number  of  great  roles  is  limited 
to  a  few  ;  and  it  is  a  common  experience  that  noth- 
ing is  more  painful  to  the  hearer  than  the  uncer- 
tainty as  to  what  interest  he  should  give  to  each  of 
these  important  persons.  It  is  also  one  practical 
advantage  of  the  piece  to  direct  its  effects  toward  a 
single  middle  point. 

Whoever  deviates  from  this  fundamental  law 
must  do  so  with  the  keen  perception  that  he  sur- 
renders a  great  advantage  ;  and  if  his  subject  mat- 
ter makes  this  surrender  necessary,  he  must,  in 
doubt,  ask  himself  whether  the  uncertainty  thus 
arising  in  the  effects,  will  be  counterbalanced  by 
other  dramatic  advantages. 

Our  drama  has  for  a  long  time  entertained  one 
exception.  Where  the  relations  of  two  lovers  form 
the  essentials  of  an  action,  these  persons,  bound  by 
spiritual  ties,  are  looked  upon  as  enjoying  equal  privi- 
leges, and  are  conceived  as  a  unit.  Thus  in  Romeo 
and  Juliet,  Love  and  Intrigue^  The  Piccolomini,  also  in 


306      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

Troilus  and  Cressida.  But  even  in  this  case,  the  poet 
will  do  well  to  accord  to  one  of  the  two  the  chief 
part  in  the  action ;  and  where  this  is  not  possible,  he 
should  base  the  inner  development  of  the  two  upon 
corresponding  motives.  In  Shakespeare,  Romeo  is 
the  leading  character  in  the  first  half  of  the  play  ; 
in  the  second  half,  Juliet  leads.  In  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra, Antony  is  the  leading  character  up  to  his 
death. 

But  while  in  Shakespeare,  Lessing,  Goethe,  the 
chief  hero  is  unmistakable,  Schiller,  not  to  the  ad- 
vantage of  his  construction,  has  a  peculiar  inclina- 
tion toward  double  heroes ;  this  appears  as  early  as 
The  Robbers ;  and  in  his  later  years,  after  his  ac- 
quaintance with  the  ancient  drama,  they  become  still 
more  striking, — Carlos  and  Posa;  Mary  and  Eliza- 
beth; the  hostile  brothers,  Max  and  Wallenstein; 
Tell,  the  Swiss,  and  Rudenz.  This  inclination  is 
easily  explained.  Schiller's  pathetic  strain  had  only 
been  strengthened  by  his  acquaintance  with  Greek 
tragedy ;  not  seldom  in  his  dramas,  it  comes  into 
contradiction  with  a  greater  poetic  quality,  dramatic 
energy.  So  under  his  hand,  there  were  disjoined 
two  tendencies  of  his  own  nature,  which  were  trans- 
ferred to  two  separate  persons,  one  of  whom 
received  the  pathetic  part,  the  other  the  leading 
part  of  the  action,  the  second  sometimes  also  receiv- 
ing a  share  in  the  pathos.  How  this  division  ren- 
dered less  prominent  the  first  hero,  who  was  the 
pathetic  character,  has  already  been  explained. 

Another  error  the  poet  finds  it  more  difficult  to 


THE  CHARACTERS.  307 

avoid.  The  share  of  the  persons  in  the  advance- 
ment of  the  action  must  be  so  arranged  that  what 
they  do  shall  have  its  logical  basis  in  an  easily  un- 
derstood trait  of  character,  and  not  in  a  subtlety  of 
judgment,  or  in  a  peculiarity  which  seems  accidental. 
Above  all,  a  decided  advancement  of  the  action  must 
not  proceed  from  the  marvellous  in  a  character, 
which  has  no  motive,  or  from  such  weaknesses  as  in 
the  eyes  of  our  observant  audiences  lessen  the 
enrapturing  impression.  Thus  the  catastrophe  in 
Emilia  Galotti,  is,  according  to  our  notion,  no  longer 
tragic  in  a  high  degree,  because  from  Emilia  and 
her  father,  we  demand  a  more  virile  courage.  That 
the  daughter  fears  being  debauched,  and  the  father, 
instead  of  seeking  an  escape  from  the  castle  for 
himself  and  his  daughter,  dagger  in  hand,  despairs 
because  the  reputation  of  the  daughter  is  already  in- 
jured by  the  abduction, —  this  wounds  our  sensibili- 
ties, however  beautifully  the  character  of  Odoardo  is 
fashioned  for  this  catastrophe.  In  Lessing's  time, 
the  ideas  of  the  public  regarding  the  power  and  arbi- 
trariness of  royal  rulers  were  so  vivid,  that  the  situa- 
tion had  a  far  different  effect  than  it  has  now.  And 
yet  with  such  assumptions,  he  could  have  motived 
the  murder  of  the  daughter  more  powerfully.  The 
spectator  must  be  thoroughly  convinced  that  any 
escape  for  the  Galotti  from  the  castle,  is  impossible. 
The  father  must  seek  it  with  the  last  accession  of 
power,  he  must  thwart  the  prince  by  violence.  For 
there  remains  still  the  greater  disadvantage,  that  it 
was  much  more  to  Odoardo's  advantage  to  kill  the 


308      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

rascally  prince,  than  his  own  innocent  daughter. 
That  would  have  been  more  according  to  custom, 
and  humanly  truer.  Of  course  this  tragedy  could 
not  bear  such  an  ending.  And  this  is  an  evidence 
that  what  is  worthy  of  consideration  in  the  piece, 
lies  deeper  than  the  catastrophe.  The  German 
atmosphere  in  which  the  strong  spirit  of  Lessing 
struggled,  still  renders  the  creation  of  great  tragic 
effect  difficult.  The  brave  Germans,  like  noble 
Romans  of  the  imperial  time,  thought,  "  Death 
makes  free  ?"22 

When  it  is  unavoidable  to  represent  the  hero,  in 
an  essential  respect  shortsighted  and  limited  in  the 
face  of  his  surroundings,  the  oppressive  burden 
must  be  lightened  by  the  complementary  side  of  his 
personality,  which  turns  toward  him  an  increased 
degree  of  respect  and  sympathy.  This  is  success- 
fully done  in  Goetz  von  Berlicliingen  and  Wallenstein  ; 
it  was  tried,  but  did  not  succeed  in  Egmont. 

The  Greek  author  of  The  Poetics  prescribed  that 
the  characters  of  the  heroes,  in  order  to  awaken 
interest  must  be  composed  of  good  and  evil  ;  the 
law  is  still  valid  to-day,  and  applicable  to  the 
changed  conditions  of  our  stage.  The  figures,  and 
all  the  material  from  which  the  German  stage  makes, 
preferably,  its  poetical  characters,  are  from  real  life. 
Where  the  poet  deems  figures  from  legend  worthy 
of  use,  he  attempts  more  or  less  successfully  to 
endow  them  with  a  more  liberal  humanity  and  a 
richer  life,  which  invites  to  the  idealization  of  his 
torical  characters  or  persons  in  the  real  world.  And 


THE   CHARACTERS.  309 

the  poet  will  be  able  to  use  every  character  for  his 
drama,  that  makes  the  representation  of  strong 
dramatic  processes  possible.  Absolute  and  un- 
changeable goodness  or  evil  are  hereby  excluded  for 
chief  characters.  Art,  in  itself,  lays  no  further 
restriction  upon  him ;  for  a  character  which  allows 
the  most  powerfully  dramatic  processes  to  be  richly 
represented  in  itself,  will  be  an  artistic  picture, 
whatever  may  be  its  relation  to  the  moral  import,  or 
to  the  social  views  of  the  hearer. 

The  choice  of  the  poet  is  also  limited,  especially 
through  his  own  manly  character,  taste,  morality, 
habits,  and  also  through  his  regard  for  the  ideal 
listener, — the  public.  It  must  be  of  great  conse- 
quence to  him,  to  inspire  his  audience  with  admira- 
tion for  his  hero,  and  to  change  his  audience  to 
fellow  players,  following  the  variations  and  mental 
processes  which  he  brings  to  view.  In  order  to 
maintain  this  sympathy,  he  is  compelled  to  choose 
personages  which  not  only  enrapture  by  the  import- 
ance, magnitude,  and  power  of  their  characters,  but 
win  to  themselves  the  sentiment  and  taste  of  the 
audience. 

The  poet  must  also  understand  the  secret  of 
ennobling  and  beautifying  for  his  contemporaries 
the  frightful,  horrible,  the  base  and  repulsive  in 
a  character,  by  means  of  the  combination  which  he 
gives  it.  The  cjucstion  for  the  German  stage,  how 
much  dare  the  poet  venture,  is  no  longer  doubtful 
since  Shakespeare's  time.  The  magic  of  his  creative 
power  works,  perhaps,  on  everyone  who  himself 


310      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

attempts  to  poetize,  most  powerfully  through  the 
completeness  which  he  gave  to  his  villains.  Richard 
III.  and  lago  are  models,  showing  how  beautifully 
the  poet  can  fashion  malevolence  and  wickedness. 
The  strong  vital  energy,  and  the  ironical  freedom 
in  which  they  play  with  life,  attaches  to  them  a 
most  significant  element  which  compels  an  unwilling 
admiration.  Both  are  scoundrels  with  no  addition 
of  a  qualifying  circumstance.  But  in  the  self- 
consciousness  of  superior  natures,  they  control 
those  about  them  with  an  almost  superhuman 
power  and  security.  On  close  inspection,  they 
appear  to  be  very  differently  constituted.  Richard 
is  the  son  of  a  wild  time  full  of  terror,  where  duty 
passed  for  naught,  and  ambition  ventured  every- 
thing. The  incongruity  between  an  iron  spirit  and 
a  deformed  body,  became  for  him  the  foundation  of 
a  cold  misanthropy.  He  is  a  practical  man,  and  a 
prince,  who  does  only  such  evil  as  is  useful  to  him, 
and  is  merciless  with  a  wild  caprice.  lago  is  far 
more  a  devil.  It  is  his  joy  to  act  wickedly ;  he 
perpetrates  wickedness  with  most  sincere  delight. 
He  gives  to  himself  and  to  others  as  his  motive  for 
destroying  the  Moor,  that  Othello  has  preferred 
another  officer  to  him,  and  has  been  intimate  with 
his  wife.  All  this  is  untrue ;  and  so  far  as  it  con- 
tains any  truth,  it  is  not  the  ultimate  ground  of  his 
treachery.  His  chief  tendency  is  the  ardent  desire 
of  a  creative  power  to  make  attacks,  to  stir  up 
quarrels,  especially  for  his  own  use  and  advantage. 
He  was  more  difficult,  therefore,  to  be  made  worthy 


THE   CHARACTERS.  311 

of  the  drama  than  was  the  prince,  the  general,  to 
whom  environment,  and  his  great  purpose  gave  a 
certain  importance  and  greatness ;  and  therefore 
Shakespeare  endowed  him  more  copiously  with 
humor,  the  beautifying  mood  of  the  soul,  which  has 
the  single  advantage  of  throwing  upon  even  the 
hateful  and  low  a  charming  light. 

The  basis  of  humor  is  the  unrestricted  freedom 
of  a  well-endowed  mind,  which  displays  its  superior 
power  to  those  about  it  in  sportive  caprice.  The 
epic  poet  who  in  his  own  breast,  bears  inclination 
and  disposition  for  these  effects,  may  exhibit  them 
in  a  twofold  manner  in  the  creatures  of  his  art :  he 
can  make  these  humorists,  or  he  can  exercise  his  own 
humor  on  them.  The  tragic  poet,  who  speaks  only 
through  his  heroes,  may  of  course,  do  only  the  first, 
because  he  communicates  his  humor  to  them.  This 
modern  intellectual  inclination  continually  produces 
on  the  hearer  a  mighty,  at  the  same  time  an 
enchanting  and  a  liberating  influence.  For  the 
serious  drama,  its  employment  has  a  difficulty. 
The  conditions  of  humor  are  intellectual  liberty, 
quiet,  deliberation  ;  the  condition  of  the  dramatic 
hero  is  embarrassment,  storm,  strong  excitement. 
The  secure  and  comfortable  playing  with  events  is 
unfavorable  to  the  advance  of  an  excited  action  ;  it 
almost  inevitably  draws  out  into  a  situation  the 
scene  into  which  it  intrudes.  Where,  therefore,  hu- 
mor enters  with  a  chief  character,  in  order  that  this 
character  may  be  raised  above  others,  it  must  have 
other  characteristics  which  prevent  it  from  quietly 


312      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

delaying.  It  must  have  strong  impelling  force,  and 
beyond  this,  a  powerfully  forward-moving  action. 

Now,  it  is  possible  so  to  guide  the  humor  of  the 
drama  that  it  does  not  exclude  violent  commotions 
of  the  soul,  so  that  an  unobstructed  view  of  one's 
own  and  another's  fate  is  enhanced,  through  a 
corresponding  capability  of  the  character  to  express 
greater  passion.  But  this  is  not  to  be  learned. 

And  the  union  of  a  profound  intellect  with  the 
confidence  of  a  secure  power  and  with  superior 
fancy,  is  a  gift  which  has  hardly  been  conferred 
upon  an  author  of  serious  dramas  in  Germany. 
When  one  receives  such  a  gift,  he  uses  it  without 
care,  without  pains,  with  certainty ;  he  makes  him- 
self laws,  and  rules,  and  compels  his  admiring  con- 
temporaries to  follow  him.  He  who  has  not  this 
gift  strives  for  it  in  vain,  and  tries  in  vain  to  paint 
into  his  scenes  something  of  that  embellishing 
brilliancy  with  which  genius  floods  everything. 

It  was  explained  above,  how  in  our  drama,  the 
characters  must  give  motive  to  the  progress  of  the 
action,  and  how  the  fate  which  rules  them  must 
not  be  anything  else  than  the  course  of  events 
brought  about  by  the  personality  of  these  charac- 
ters,—  a  course  which  must  be  conceived  every 
moment  by  the  hearer  as  reasonable  and  probable, 
however  surprising  individual  moments  may  come 
to  him.  Right  here  the  poet  evinces  his  power  if 
he  knows  how  to  fashion  his  characters  deep  and 
great,  and  conduct  his  action  with  elevated  thought, 
and  if  he  does  not  offer  as  a  beautiful  invention 


THE   CHARACTERS.  313 

what  lies  upon  the  beaten  track  of  ordinary  under- 
standing, and  what  is  next  to  a  shallow  judgment. 
And  with  a  purpose,  it  may  be  emphatically 
repeated,  that  every  drama  must  be  a  firmly  con- 
nected structure  in  which  the  connection  between 
cause  and  effect  form  the  iron  clasps,  and  that  what 
is  irrational  can,  as  such,  have  no  important  place  at 
all  in  the  modern  drama. 

But  now  mention  must  be  made  of  an  accessory 
motive  for  the  advancement  of  the  action,  a  motive 
which  was  not  mentioned  in  the  former  section.  In 
individual  cases,  the  characters  may  receive  as  a 
fellow-player,  a  shadow,  which  is  not  gladly  wel- 
comed on  our  stage — the  mischance.  When  what 
is  being  developed  has  been,  in  its  essentials, 
grounded  in  the  impelling  personality  of  the  char- 
acters, then  it  may  become  comprehensible  that  in 
the  action,  a  single  man  is  not  able  to  guide  with 
certainty  the  connection  of  events.  When  in  King 
Lear,  the  villain,  Edmund ;  when  in  Antigone,  the 
despot,  Creon,  recall  the  death  sentences  which  they 
have  pronounced,  it  appears  as  an  accident  that 
these  same  sentences  have  been  executed  so  quickly 
and  in  such  an  unexpected  manner.  When  in  Wal- 
lenstcin,  the  hero  will  abrogate  the  treaty  which  he 
has  concluded  with  Wrangel,  it  is  strongly  empha- 
sized with  what  incomprehensible  suddenness  the 
Swede  has  disappeared.  When  in  Romeo  and  Juliet, 
the  news  of  Juliet's  death  reaches  Romeo  before  the 
message  of  Friar  Laurence,  the  accident  appears  of 
decisive  importance  in  the  course  of  the  piece.  But 


3i4      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

this  intrusion  of  a  circumstance  not  counted  upon, 
however  striking  it  may  be,  is  at  bottom  no  motive 
forcing  itself  in  from  without ;  it  is  only  the  result 
of  a  characteristic  deed  of  the  hero. 

The  characters  have  caused  a  portentous  decision 
to  depend  on  a  course  of  events  which  they  can  no 
longer  govern.  The  trap  had  already  fallen,  which 
Edmund  had  set  for  the  death  of  Cordelia ;  Creon 
had  caused  Antigone  to  be  locked  up  in  the  burial 
vault ;  whether  the  defiant  woman  awaited  starva- 
tion or  chose  a  death  for  herself — of  this  he  had  no 
longer  the  direction;  Wallenstein  has  given  his  fate 
into  the  hands  of  an  enemy ;  that  Wrangel  had 
good  grounds  to  make  the  resolve  of  the  waverer 
irrevocable,  was  evident.  Romeo  and  Juliet  have 
come  into  the  condition,  that  the  possibility  of  their 
saving  their  lives  depends  on  a  frightful,  criminal, 
and  extremely  venturesome  measure,  which  the 
priest  had  thought  of  in  his  anguish.  In  this  and 
similar  cases,  the  accident  enters  only  because  the 
characters  under  overpowering  pressure  have 
already  lost  the  power  of  choice.  For  the  poet 
and  his  piece,  it  is  no  longer  accident,  that  is,  not 
something  extraneous  which  bursts  asunder  the 
joints  of  the  action ;  but  it  is  a  motive  like  every 
other,  deduced  from  the  peculiarities  of  the  charac- 
ters ;  in  its  ultimate  analysis,  it  is  a  necessary  con- 
sequence of  preceding  events.  This  not  ineffective 
means  is  to  be  used  with  prudence,  and  is  to  be 
grounded  in  the  nature  of  the  characters  and  in  the 
actual  situation. 


THE   CHARACTERS.  315 

For  guiding  the  characters  through  individual 
acts,  a  few  technical  rules  are  to  be  observed,  as  has 
already  been  said.  They  will  be  brought  forward, 
in  this  place,  briefly,  once  more.  Every  single 
person  of  the  drama  is  to  show  the  fundamental 
traits  of  his  character,  as  distinctly,  as  quickly,  and 
as  attractively  as  possible ;  and  where  an  artistic 
effect  lies  in  a  concealed  play  of  single  roles,  the 
audience  must  be,  to  a  certain  extent,  the  confidant 
of  the  poet.  The  later  a  new  characteristic  trait 
enters  the  action,  the  more  carefully  must  the 
motive  for  it  be  laid  in  the  beginning,  in  order 
that  the  spectator  may  enjoy  to  the  full  extent 
the  pleasure  of  the  surprise,  and  perceive  that  it 
corresponds  exactly  to  the  constitution  of  the 
character. 

Brief  touches  are  the  rule,  where  the  chief  char- 
acters have  to  present  themselves  at  the  beginning 
of  the  play.  As  a  matter  of  course,  the  significant 
single  characteristics  are  not  to  be  introduced  in  an 
anecdotal  manner,  but  to  be  interwoven  with  the 
action, —  except  that  little  episodes,  or  a  modest 
painting  of  a  situation,  are  thus  allowed.  The 
scenes  at  the  beginning,  which  give  color  to  the 
piece,  which  prepare  the  moods,  must  also  at  the 
same  time  present  the  ground  texture  of  the  hero. 
Shakespeare  manages  this  with  wonderful  skill.  Be- 
fore his  heroes  are  entangled  in  the  difficulties  of  a 
tragic  action,  he  likes  to  let  them,  while  still  unem- 
barrassed in  the  introduction  scenes,  express  the 
trend  of  their  character  most  distinctly  and  charac- 


316      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

teristically ;  Hamlet,  Othello,  Romeo,  Brutus,  Rich- 
ard III.,  illustrate. 

It  is  not  an  accident  that  Goethe's  heroes, — 
Faust,  both  parts,  Iphigenia,  even  Gotz, —  are  intro- 
duced in  soliloquy,  or  in  quiet  conversation  like 
Tasso,  Clavigo.  Egmont  enters  first  in  the  second 
act.  Lessing  follows  the  old  custom  of  his  stage, 
of  introducing  his  heroes  by  means  of  their  inti- 
mates ;  but  Schiller  again  lays  great  stress  on  the 
characteristic  representation  of  unembarrassed 
heroes.  In  the  trilogy  of  Wallenstein,  the  nature  of 
the  hero  is  first  presented  in  rich  mirrorings  in  The 
Camp,  and  in  the  first  act  of  The  Piccolomini ;  but 
Wallenstein  himself  appears,  introduced  by  the  as- 
trologer, in  the  circle  of  his  family  and  friends,  out 
of  which  during  the  entire  play,  he  is  seldom  re- 
moved. 

It  has  already  been  said  that  new  roles  in  the 
second  half  of  the  drama,  the  return  action,  require 
a  peculiar  treatment.  The  spectator  is  inclined  to 
consider  with  mistrust  the  leading  of  the  roles 
through  new  persons.  The  poet  must  take  care  not 
to  distract  or  make  impatient.  Therefore  the  char- 
acters of  the  second  part  require  a  richer  endow- 
ment, attractive  presentation,  most  effective  detailed 
delineation,  in  compact  treatment.  Excellent  ex- 
amples of  elaboration  are,  besides  those  already 
named,  Deveroux  and  Macdonald  in  Wallenstein, 
while  Buttler,  in  the  same  piece,  serves  as  model 
of  a  character  whose  active  participation  is  saved 
for  the  last  part, —  not  towed  as  a  dead  weight 


THE   CHARACTERS.  317 

through  the  first,  but  interwoven  with  its  internal 
changes. 

Finally,  the  unpracticed  playwright  must  take 
care,  when  it  is  necessary  to  have  another  person 
talk  about  his  hero,  to  attach  no  great  value  to  such 
exposition  of  the  character  ;  and  will  only,  when  it 
is  entirely  to  the  purpose,  allow  the  hero  to  express 
a  judgment  concerning  himself  ;  but  all  that  others 
say  of  a  person,  or  what  he  says  of  himself,  has 
little  weight  in  comparison  with  what  is  seen  coming 
into  being,  growing  in  counter-play  with  others,  in 
the  connections  of  the  action.  Indeed,  the  effect 
may  be  fatal  if  the  zealous  poet  commends  his 
heroes  as  sublime,  as  joyous,  as  shrewd,  while  in 
the  piece,  in  spite  of  the  poet's  wish,  it  is  not 
accorded  them  to  show  these  qualities. 

The  conducting  of  characters  through  the  scenes 
must  occur  with  strict  regard  to  the  tableaux,  or 
grouping,  and  the  demands  of  scenic  representation. 
For  even  in  the  conducting  of  a  scene,  the  actor,  as 
opposed  to  the  poet,  makes  his  demands  prevail, 
and  the  poet  docs  well  to  heed  them.  He  stands 
in  a  delicate  relation  with  his  actor,  which  places 
obligations  on  both  sides.  In  the  essential  thing, 
the  aim  of  both  is  the  same.  Both  exercise  their 
creative  power  upon  the  same  material ;  the  poet  as 
a  silent  guide,  the  actor  as  an  executive  power. 
And  the  poet  will  soon  learn  that  the  German  actor, 
on  the  whole,  adapts  himself  with  a  ready  fervor 
and  zeal  to  the  effects  of  the  poet,  and  seldom  bur- 
dens him  with  claims,  through  which  he  thinks  to 


318      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

place  his  own  art  in  the  foreground  to  the  disad- 
vantage of  the  poetry.  Since,  indeed,  the  individual 
actor  has  in  his  eye  the  effects  of  his  role,  and  the 
poet  thinks  of  the  aggregate  effect,  in  many  cases 
there  may  be  in  the  rehearsal  of  the  piece,  a  divis- 
ion of  interests.  The  poet  will  not  always  accord 
to  his  associate  the  better  right, —  if  it  is  necessary 
to  temper  an  effect,  or  to  suppress  a  single  char- 
acter in  single  moments  of  an  action.  Experience 
teaches  that  the  actor,  in  such  a  contradiction  of 
the  conceptions  on  either  side,  readily  falls  into  line 
as  soon  as  he  receives  the  notion  that  the  poet  un- 
derstands his  own  art.  For  the  artist  is  accustomed 
to  labor  as  a  participant  in  a  greater  whole,  and 
when  he  will  give  attention,  right  well  perceives  the 
highest  demands  of  the  piece.  The  claims  which 
he  puts  forward  with  right, —  good  roles,  strong  ef- 
fects, economy  of  his  strength,  a  convenient  ar- 
rangement of  scenes, —  must  be  as  much  a  matter 
of  concern  to  the  poet  as  to  him. 

These  requirements  may  be  traced  back  to  two 
great  principles,  to  the  proposition  which  may  be 
stated:  The  stage  effect  must  be  clear  to  the  poet 
while  he  is  composing ;  and  to  the  short  but  very 
imperative  proposition :  The  poet  must  know  how 
to  create  great  dramatic  effects  for  his  characters. 
In  every  individual  scene,  specially  in  scenes  where 
groups  appear,  the  poet  must  keep  well  in  mind  the 
general  appearance  of  the  stage ;  he  must  perceive 
with  distinctness  the  positions  of  the  persons,  their 
movements  toward  and  away  from  each  other  as 


THE   CHARACTERS.  319 

they  occur  gradually  on  the  stage.  If  more  fre- 
quently than  the  character  and  the  dignity  of  the 
role  allow,  he  compels  the  actor  to  turn  toward  this 
or  the  other  person,  in  order  to  facilitate  subordin- 
ate roles,  or  correct  them ;  if  he  delays  the  motive, 
the  transitions  from  one  arrangement  into  another, 
from  one  side  of  the  stage  to  another,  as  he  pre- 
sumes it  to  come  at  a  later  moment  of  the  scene  ;  if 
he  forces  the  actor  into  a  position  which  does  not  al- 
low him  to  complete  his  movements  unrestrained  and 
effectively,  or  to  come  into  the  proposed  combina- 
tion with  a  fellow  actor;  if  he  does  not  remember 
which  of  his  roles  every  time  begins  the  play,  and 
which  continues  it ;  further,  if  he  leaves  one  of  the 
chief  characters  unoccupied  for  a  long  time  on  the 
stage,  or  if  he  attributes  too  much  to  the  power  of 
the  actor, — the  final  result  of  this  and  similar  diffi- 
culties is  a  representation  too  weak  and  fragmen- 
tary of  the  course  on  the  stage,  of  the  dramatic 
action  which  the  poet  may  have  perceived  clear 
and  effective  in  its  course  through  his  mind.  In  all 
such  cases,  the  claims  of  the  actor  must  be  re- 
spected. And  the  poet  will  also,  on  this  ground, 
give  special  attention  to  the  claims  of  stage  cus- 
tom. For  this,  there  is  no  better  means  of  learning 
than  to  go  with  an  actor  through  a  new  role  which 
is  to  be  practiced,  and  carefully  watch  the  rehearsal 
under  a  competent  stage  director. 

The  old  requirement  that  a  poet  must  adapt  his 
characters  to  the  special  line  of  work  of  the  actors, 
appears  more  awkward  than  it  really  is.  Well 


320      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

established  principles  once  current  for  the  govern- 
ment of  chief  roles,  have  been  abandoned  by  our 
stage  ;  having  once  received  an  artist  into  the 
circle  of  prescriptions  and  prohibitions,  they  made 
it  impossible  for  an  "intriguer"  to  play  a  role  out- 
side of  the  first  rank ;  and  they  separated  the  bon- 
vivant  from  the  "youthful  hero,"  by  a  wide  chasm, 
almost  impassable.  Meantime,  there  remains  so 
much  of  the  custom  as  is  useful  for  the  actor  and 
the  stage  director,  in  order  to  draw  individual  talent 
towards  its  special  province,  and  to  facilitate  the 
setting  of  new  roles.  Every  actor  rejoices  in  a  cer- 
tain stock  of  dramatic  means  which  he  has 
developed  within  his  branch :  the  quality  of  his 
voice,  accent  of  speech,  physical  bearing,  postures, 
control  of  facial  muscles.  Within  his  accustomed 
limits,  he  moves  with  comparative  security ;  beyond 
them,  he  is  uncertain.  If  now  the  poet  lays  claim 
to  the  accustomed  readiness  of  different  specialties 
in  the  same  role,  the  setting  will  be  difficult,  and 
the  result,  perhaps,  doubtful.  There  is,  for  instance, 
an  Italian  party-leader  of  the  fifteenth  century,  as  to 
outsiders,  sharp,  sly,  concealed,  an  unscrupulous 
scoundrel ;  in  his  family,  warm  in  feeling,  dignified, 
honored  and  honorable, —  no  improbable  mixture  ; — 
his  image  on  the  stage  would  strike  one  very  differ- 
ently, when  the  character  player  or  the  older  and 
dignified  hero  father  represented  him ;  probably  in 
any  setting,  the  one  side  of  his  nature  would  fall 
short. 

This  is  no  infrequent  case.     The   advantage  of 


THE  CHARACTERS.  321 

correct  setting  according  to  special  capability  of 
actors,  the  dangers  of  an  inappropriate  setting,  can 
be  observed  in  witnessing  any  new  piece.  The 
poet  will  never  allow  himself  to  be  guided  by  such 
a  prudent  respect  for  the  greater  sureness  of  his 
results,  when  the  formation  of  an  unusual  stage 
character  is  of  importance  to  him.  He  is  only  to 
know  what  is  most  convenient  for  himself  and  his 
actors. 

And  when  at  last  it  is  required  of  the  poet  that 
he  fashion  his  characters  effectively  for  the  actor, 
this  claim  contains  the  highest  requirement  which 
can  be  placed  upon  the  dramatic  poet.  To  create 
effectively  for  the  actor,  means,  indeed,  nothing 
else  than  to  create  dramatically,  in  the  best  sense  of 
the  word.  Body  and  soul,  the  actor  is  prepared  to 
transform  himself  into  conscious,  creative  activity, 
in  order  to  body  forth  the  most  secret  thought, 
feeling,  sentiment,  of  will  and  deed.  Let  the  poet 
see  to  it  that  he  knows  how  to  use  worthily  and 
perfectly  this  mighty  stock  of  means  for  his  artistic 
effects.  And  the  secret  of  his  art,  —  the  first  thing 
given  a  place  in  these  pages  and  the  last, —  is  only 
this :  Let  him  delineate  exactly  and  truly,  even  to 
details,  however  strongly  feeling  breaks  forth  from 
the  private  life  as  desire  and  deed,  and  however 
strong  impressions  are  made  from  without  upon  the 
soul  of  the  hero.  Let  him  describe  this  with  poetic 
fulness,  from  a  soul  which  sees  exactly,  sharply, 
comprehensively,  each  single  moment  of  the  pro- 
cess, and  finds  special  joy  in  portraying  it  in 


322      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

beautiful  single  traits.  Let  him  thus  labor,  and  he 
will  set  his  actors  the  greatest  tasks,  and  will 
worthily  and  completely  make  use  of  their  noblest 
powers. 

Again  it  must  be  said,  no  technique  teaches  how 
one  must  begin,  in  order  to  write  in  this  way. 


CHAPTER   V. 
VERSE  AND  COLOR. 

The  century  in  which  the  romance  has  become 
the  prevailing  species  of  poetry,  will  no  longer  con- 
sider verse  an  indispensable  element  of  poetics. 
There  are  many  dramas  of  a  high  order,  favorite 
pieces  upon  our  stage,  composed  in  prose.  At  least 
in  dramatic  subjects  from  modern  times,  it  is 
claimed,  prose  is  the  most  appropriate  expression 
of  such  thoughts  and  sentiments  as  can  be  placed 
on  the  stage,  from  a  well-known  real  life.  But  the 
serious  drama  hardly  concludes  to  abandon  the 
advantages  which  verse  affords,  in  order  to  win 
those  of  prose. 

It  is  true,  prose  flows  along  more  rapidly,  more 
easily,  indeed,  in  many  respects  more  dramatically. 
It  is  easier  in  it,  to  discriminate  the  different  char- 
acters ;  it  offers,  from  the  construction  of  the 
sentence  to  the  qualities  of  voice  and  tones,  the 
greatest  wealth  of  colors  and  shades ;  everything  is 
less  constrained  ;  it  adapts  itself  quickly  to  every 
frame  of  mind;  it  can  give  to  light  prattle  or  to 
humorous  delight  a  spirit  which  is  very  difficult  to 
verse ;  it  admits  of  greater  disquiet,  stronger  con- 
trasts, more  violent  movement.  But  these  advan- 

323 


324      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

tages  are  fully  counterbalanced  by  the  exalted 
mood  of  the  hearer  which  verse  produces  and 
maintains.  While  prose  easily  incurs  the  risk  of 
reducing  the  work  of  art  to  copies  of  ordinary 
reality,  speech  in  verse  elevates  the  nature  of  the 
characters  into  the  noble.  Every  moment  the 
perception  and  feeling  of  the  hearer  are  kept  alive 
to  the  fact  that  he  is  in  the  presence  of  a  work  of 
art  which  bears  him  away  from  reality,  and  sets  him 
in  another  world,  the  relations  of  which  the  human 
mind  has  ordered  with  perfect  freedom.  Moreover, 
the  limitation  which  is  placed  on  logical  discussion, 
and  sometimes  on  the  brevity  and  incisiveness  of 
expression,  is  no  very  perceptible  loss.  To  poetical 
representation,  the  sharpness  and  fineness  of  proof- 
processes  are  not  so  important  as  the  operation  on 
the  mind,  as  the  brilliance  of  imaginative  expression, 
of  simile  and  antithesis,  which  verse  favors.  In  the 
rhythmic  ring  of  the  verse,  feeling  and  vision  raised 
above  reality,  float  as  if  transfigured,  in  the  hearer's 
soul ;  and  it  must  be  said  that  these  advantages 
can  be  very  serviceable,  specially  to  subjects  from 
modern  times  ;  for  in  these,  the  exaltation  above  the 
common  frame  of  mind  of  every-day  life,  is  most 
necessary.  How  this  can  be  done,  not  only  Tlic 
Prince  of  Hamburg  shows,  but  the  treatment  which 
Goethe  gave  the  undramatic  material  of  The  Natural 
Daughter,  though  the  verse  of  this  drama  is  not 
written  conveniently  for  the  actor. 

The  iambic  pentameter  has  been  our  established 
verse  since  Goethe  and  Schiller.     A  preponderating 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  325 

trochaic  accent  of  German  words  makes  this  verse 
peculiarly  convenient.  Of  course,  it  is  rather  brief 
in  relation  to  the  little  logical  units  of  the  sentence, 
the  coupling  of  which  in  pairs  makes  up  the  essence 
of  the  verse-line.  In  its  ten  or  eleven  syllables,  we 
cannot  compress  the  fulness  of  meaning  which  it 
has,  for  example,  in  the  terse  English  speech ;  and 
the  poet  thus  inclined  toward  a  rich,  sonorous 
expression,  falls  easily  into  the  temptation  of 
extending  part  of  a  sentence  into  a  line  and  a  half 
or  two  lines,  which  it  would  be  better  to  extend  in 
an  uninterrupted,  and  thus  finer  flow  of  words. 
But  the  pentameter  has  the  advantage  of  the  great- 
est possible  fluency  and  flexibility ;  it  can  adapt 
itself  more  than  any  other  kind  of  verse  to  changing 
moods,  and  follow  every  variation  of  the  soul  in 
time  and  movement. 

The  remaining  kinds  of  verse  which  have  been 
used  in  the  drama,  suffer  the  disadvantage  of  hav- 
ing too  marked  a  peculiarity  of  sound,  and  more 
than  a  little  limit  characterization  by  speech,  which 
is  necessary  to  the  drama. 

The  German  trochaic  tetrameter,  which  among 
many  other  measures  for  instance,  Immermann  used 
effectively  in  the  catastrophe  of  his  Alexis,  flows 
like  all  trochaic  verse,  too  uniformly  with  the 
natural  accent  of  our  language.  The  sharp  time- 
beats  which  its  feet  make  in  the  speech,  and  the 
long  elevated  course,  give  to  it  in  the  German  lan- 
guage, a  restlessness,  a  surging,  a  dark  tone-color 
which  would  be  appropriate  only  for  high  tragic 


326      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

moods.  The  iambic  hexameter,  the  caesura  of 
which  stands  in  the  middle  of  the  third  foot,  the 
tragic  measure  of  the  Greeks,  has,  so  far,  been  used 
but  little  in  Germany.  From  its  translations  from 
the  Greek,  it  acquired  the  reputation  of  stiffness  and 
rigidity  which  do  not  essentially  belong  to  it ;  it 
has  a  vigorous  movement  and  is  capable  of  many 
variations.  Its  sonorousness  is  majestic,  and  full  for 
rich  expression  which  moves  forward  in  long  undu- 
lations, and  is  splendidly  adapted  to  its  use.  It  has 
only  this  disadvantage,  that  its  chief  division,  which 
even  in  the  drama  must  be  made  after  the  fifth 
syllable,  gives  to  the  parts  of  the  verse  very  uneven 
length.  Against  five  syllables  stand  seven,  or 
eight  if  there  is  a  feminine  ending.  A  second 
caesura  intrudes  so  easily  into  the  second  half  verse, 
that  the  line  is  divided  into  three  parts.  This  after- 
tone  of  the  longer  half  makes  a  masculine  ending  of 
the  verse  desirable ;  and  the  foretone  of  the  mascu- 
line ending  contributes  to  give  weight,  sometimes, 
hardness.  The  Alexandrine,  an  iambic  hexameter, 
the  caesura  of  which  lies  after  the  third  arsis,  and 
divides  the  line  into  two  equal  parts,  cuts  the  dis- 
course too  markedly  in  the  German  drama.  In 
French,  its  effect  is  entirely  different,  because  in 
this  language  the  verse  accent  is  much  more 
covered  and  broken  up  in  a  greater  number  of 
ways,  not  only  through  the  capricious  and  movable 
word  accent,  but  through  the  free  rhythmic  swing 
of  spoken  discourse  through  a  mingling  and  pro- 
longation of  words,  which  we  cannot  imitate;  and 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  327 

this  rests  on  a  greater  prominence  of  the  element  of 
sound,  sonorousness,  with  which  the  creative  power 
of  the  speaker  knows  how  to  play  in  an  original 
manner.  Finally,  there  is  another  iambic  verse  in 
the  German,  specially  adapted  to  a  vigorous  move- 
ment, yet  little  used, — the  hexameter  of  The  Nibe- 
litngen,  in  the  new  language  an  iambic  hexameter, 
the  fourth  foot  of  which  may  be  not  only  an 
iambus,  but  an  anapest,  and  always  has  the 
caesura  of  the  verse  after  the  first  thesis.  What  is 
characteristic  and  specially  adapted  to  the  German 
language,  is  the  position  of  the  csesura  so  far  along 
in  the  verse,  which,  deviating  from  all  ancient 
measures,  as  a  rule,  shows  a  greater  number  of 
syllables  in  the  first  half.  If  the  verses  of  this 
measure  are  not  joined  in  strophes,  but  are  used 
with  slight  variations  in  construction  as  continuous 
long  verses,  with  a  line  frequently  passing  over  into 
the  next  as  a  single  sentence,  then  this  measure  is 
excellent  and  effective  for  the  expression  even  of 
impassioned  progress.  It  is  possible  that  its  nature, 
which,  perhaps,  corresponds  best  to  the  rhythmic 
relations  of  the  German  language,  avails  for  animated 
narrative,  and  wins  some  significance  for  one  species 
of  comedy.  To  the  elevated  drama,  rhyme,  which 
in  this  measure,  two  long  verses  cannot  dispense 
with  as  a*connccting  element,  will  always  seem  too 
harmonious  and  sportive,  however  well  it  may  be 
modified  through  a  rapid  transition  of  voice,  from 
one  line  to  another. 

For  the  modern  drama,  further,  likeness  of  tone- 


328      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

color  and  uniformity  of  measure  is  indispensable. 
Our  speech,  and  the  receptivity  of  the  hearer  are,  so 
far  as  the  relations  of  sound  are  concerned,  little 
developed.  The  differences  in  the  sounds  of  the 
verses  are  conceived  more  as  disturbing  interrup- 
tions than  as  stimulating  aids.  But  further,  interest 
in  the  intellectual  import  of  the  discourse  and  in 
the  dramatic  movement  of  the  characters,  has  come 
to  the  front  to  such  an  extent,  that  even  for  this 
reason,  every  verse  unit  which,  in  its  contrast  with 
what  has  preceded,  calls  attention  to  itself,  will  be 
counted  a  distraction. 

This  is  also  the  ground  that  should  easily 
exclude  prose  passages  from  between  poetic  passages 
in  our  drama ;  for  by  means  of  them,  the  contrast 
in  color  becomes  still  stronger.  Inserted  prose 
always  gives  to  scenes  something  of  the  barren 
imitation  of  reality ;  and  this  disadvantage  is  in- 
creased, because  prose  serves  the  poet  as  a  means 
of  expressing  moods  for  which  the  dignified  sonor- 
ousness of  verse  appears  too  excellent. 

The  iambic  pentameter  has  a  fluency  for  the 
German  poet,  whose  soul  has  accustomed  itself  in 
its  soarings,  to  think  and  feel  most  easily  during 
the  process  of  composition.  But  its  being  made  the 
vehicle  of  dramatic  expression  is  still  difficult  for 
the  German  poet,  and  the  poets  are  not  "numerous 
who  have  perfectly  succeeded  in  it.  And  so 
distinctly  this  verse  expresses  the  poet's  quality, 
which  is  here  called  dramatic,  that  the  reader  of  a 
new  piece  is  able  to  perceive  from  a  few  verses 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  329 

of  animated  dialogue,  whether  this  dramatic  power 
of  the  poet  is  developed  or  not.  Of  course,  it  is 
always  much  easier  for  the  Germans  to  feel  the 
possibly  dramatic  than  to  express  this  inner  life  in 
a  becoming  manner  in  verse. 

Before  iambic  verse  is  available  for  the  stage, 
the  poet  must  be  in  a  position  to  make  it  correct, 
euphonious,  and  without  too  great  effort ;  chief 
caesura  and  secondary  caesura,  arsis,  thesis,  mascu- 
line endings,  feminine  endings,  must  come  out 
according  to  well-known  laws,  regularly  and  in 
pleasing  variations. 

If  the  poet  has  gained  the  technique  of  versifica- 
tion and  succeeded  in  writing  musical  verse  with 
pleasing  flow  and  pithy  substance,  his  verse  is  cer- 
tainly not  right  undramatic ;  and  the  more  difficult 
labor  begins.  Now  the  poet  must  acquire  another 
art  of  rhythmic  feeling,  which  shall  occasion,  in 
place  of  regularity,  to  place  apparent  irregularities, 
to  disturb  the  uniform  flow  in  manifold  ways,  which 
means,  to  imbue  with  strong  dramatic  life. 

Previously  it  was  said,  that  in  French,  the  Alex- 
andrine was  animated  and  varied  by  the  introduc- 
tion of  irregular  modulations  and  cadences.  The 
dramatic  speech  of  the  Germans  does  not  allow  the 
actors,  like  the  French,  unlimited  play  with  words, 
through  a  rapidly  changing  rate  of  utterance,  sharp 
accent,  through  a  prolongation  or  tossing  of  the 
sounds,  which  proceed  almost  independently  of  their 
meaning,  when  representing  single  words.  On  the 
other  hand,  there  is  given  to  the  German  in  an 


330      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

unusual  degree,  the  capability  of  expressing  the 
movements  of  his  mind,  in  the  structure  of  his  verse, 
through  the  connecting  and  separating  of  sentences, 
through  bringing  into  relief,  or  transposing  single 
words.  The  rhythmic  movement  of  the  excited 
soul  comes  more  into  relief  among  the  Germans, 
in  the  logical  connection  and  division  of  sentences, 
than  among  the  Latin  races  in  the  sonorous  swing 
of  their  recitation. 

In  the  iambus  of  the  drama,  this  life  enters  by 
interrupting  the  symmetrical  structure  of  the  verse, 
checking  it,  turning  it  this  way  and  that  into  the 
infinite  shadings  which  are  produced  by  the  move- 
ments of  the  characters.  The  verse  must  accommo- 
date itself  obediently  to  every  mood  of  the  soul ;  it 
must  seek  to  correspond  to  each,  not  only  through 
its  rhythm  but  through  the  logical  connection  of 
sentences  which  it  combines.  For  quiet  feeling 
and  fine  mental  action,  which  move  forward  in 
repose  and  dignity  or  with  vivid  animation,  he  must 
use  his  purest  form,  his  most  beautiful  euphony,  and 
even  flow  of  eloquence.  In  Goethe,  the  dramatic 
iambus  glides  thus  in  quiet  beauty.  If  feeling  rises 
higher,  if  the  more  excited  mood  flows  out  in  more 
adorned,  long-breathed  lines,  then  the  verse  must 
rush  in  long  waves,  now  dying  out  in  prepon- 
derating feminine  endings,  now  terminating  more 
frequently  in  powerful  masculine  endings.  This  is, 
as  a  rule,  Schiller's  verse.  The  excitement  becomes 
stronger ;  single  waves  of  speech  break  over  one 
verse,  and  fill  a  part  of  the  next ;  then  short 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  331 

impulses  of  passion  throng  and  break  up  the  form 
of  single  verses;  but  above  all  this  eddying,  the 
rhythmic  current  of  a  longer  passage  is  quietly  and 
steadily  moving.  So  in  Lcssing.  But  the  expres- 
sion of  excitement  becomes  stormier  and  wilder; 
the  rhythmic  course  of  the  verse  seems  wholly  dis- 
ordered ;  now  and  again  a  sentence  from  the  end  of 
one  verse  rings  over  into  the  beginning  of  the  next ; 
here  and  there  a  part  of  a  verse  is  torn  from  its  con- 
nections, and  attached  to  what  has  preceded  or 
what  follows ;  speech  and  counter-speech  break 
the  grammatical  connections ;  the  first  word  of  a 
sentence,  and  the  last, — two  important  places,  —  are 
separated  from  others  and  become  independent 
members  of  a  sentence;  the  verse  remains  imper- 
fect ;  instead  of  the  quiet  restful  alternations  of 
strong  and  weak  endings,  there  is  a  long  series  of 
verses  with  the  masculine  ending;  the  caesura  is 
hardly  to  be  recognized ;  even  in  those  unaccented 
syllables  or  groups,  over  which,  in  the  regular 
course,  the  rhythm  would  flow  swiftly,  massive, 
heavy  words  throng  together,  and  the  parts  of  the 
verse  tumble  against  each  other  as  in  chaos.  This 
is  the  dramatic  verse,  as  it  produces  the  most 
powerful  effects  in  the  best  passages  of  Kleist, 
in  spite  of  all  the  poet's  mannerisms  ;  thus  it  whirls 
and  eddies  away  more  magnificently,  more  finished, 
in  the  passionate  scenes  of  Shakespeare. 

As  soon  as  the  poet  has  learned  to  use  his  verse 
in  such  a  manner,  he  has  imbued  it  with  a  dramatic 
life.  But  he  must  always  keep  in  mind  one  dramatic 


332      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

rule :  Dramatic  verse  is  not  to  be  read  or  recited 
quietly,  but  to  be  pronounced  in  character.  For 
this  purpose,  it  is  necessary  that  the  logical  connec- 
tion of  sentences  be  made  perfectly  clear,  through 
conjunctions  and  prepositions ;  and  further,  that  the 
expression  of  sentiment  correspond  to  the  character 
of  the  speaker,  not  break  off  in  unintelligible 
brevity,  nor  be  prolonged  to  prolixity ;  finally,  that 
uneuphonious  combinations  of  sounds  and  indistinct 
words  are  to  be  carefully  avoided.  Spoken  speech 
yields  its  thought,  sometimes  with  more  ease,  some- 
times with  more  difficulty.  A  dissonance  which  the 
reader  hardly  notices,  when  pronounced,  distracts 
and  offends  in  a  marked  degree.  Every  obscurity 
in  the  connection  of  sentences  makes  the  actor  and 
the  hearer  uncertain,  and  leads  to  false  conceptions. 
But  even  for  accurate  expression  in  fine  and  spirited 
explication,  the  reader  is  more  penetrating  and 
receptive  than  the  easily  distracted  and  more  busily 
occupied  spectator.  On  the  other  hand,  the  actor 
may  make  many  things  clearer.  The  reader  in  a 
comparatively  more  quiet  mood,  follows  the  short 
sentences  of  a  broken  speech,  the  inner  relations  of 
which  are  not  made  plain  by  the  usual  particles  of 
logical  sentence  sequences  ;  but  he  follows  with  an 
effort  which  easily  becomes  exhaustion.  To  the 
actor,  on  the  contrary,  such  passages  are  the  most 
welcome  as  the  foundation  of  his  creative  work. 
By  means  of  an  accent,  a  glance,  a  gesture,  he 
knows  how  to  render  quickly  intelligible  to  the 
hearer,  the  last  connection,  the  omitted  ideas  neces- 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  333 

sary  to  completeness ;  and  the  soul  which  he  puts 
into  -the  words,  the  passion  which  streams  forth 
from  him,  become  a  guide  which  fills  out  and  com- 
pletes for  the  hearer  the  import  of  the  suppressed 
and  fragmentary  speech,  and  produces  perhaps  a 
powerful  unity.  It  happens  that  in  reading,  long 
passages  of  verse  give  the  impression  of  the  artifi- 
cial, of  something  vainly  sought  for  ;  but  this  on  the 
stage  changes  into  a  picture  of  intense  passion. 
Now,  it  is  possible  that  the  actor  has  done  his  best 
with  it;  for  his  art  is  specially  powerful  where  the 
poet  has  left  a  blank  in  the  thought.  But  just  so 
often  the  poetic  art  has  the  best  right;  and  the  fault 
is  in  the  reader,  because  his  power  of  following  and 
thinking  along  with  the  poet,  is  not  so  active  as  it 
should  be.  It  is  easy  to  recognize  this  peculiarity 
of  style  in  Lessing.  The  frequent  interruptions  in 
the  discourse,  the  short  sentences,  the  questions 
and  chance  remarks,  the  animated  dialectic  pro- 
cesses which  his  persons  pass  through,  appear  in 
reading  as  artificial  unrest.  But,  with  a  few  excep- 
tions, they  are  so  accurate,  so  profoundly  conceived, 
that  this  poet,  just  on  this  account,  is  the  favorite 
with  actors.  Still  more  striking  is  the  same 
peculiarity  in  Klcist,  but  not  always  sound,  and  not 
always  true.  In  the  restlessness,  fevcrishness, 
excitement  of  his  language,  the  inner  life  of  his 
characters,  which  struggles  violently,  sometimes 
helplessly  for  expression,  finds  its  corresponding 
reflection. 

But  a  useless  interruption  of  the  discourse  is  not 


334      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

infrequent, — unnecessarily  invented  animation,  pur- 
poseless questions,  a  misunderstanding  that  requires 
no  explanation.  For  the  most  part,  he  has  a  prac- 
tical purpose  in  this ;  he  wishes  to  make  very 
prominent  individual  ideas  which  appear  of 
importance  to  him.  But  that  seems  to  him 
important  sometimes,  which  can  really  claim  no 
significance;  and  the  frequent  recurrence  of  little 
leaps  aside  from  the  direct  line  of  the  action,  dis- 
turb not  only  the  reader  but  the  hearer. 

The  effect  of  verse  can  be  increased,  in  the  Ger- 
man drama,  by  parallelisms,  as  well  of  single 
verses  as  of  groups,  especially  in  dialogue  scenes; 
where  proposition  and  denial  come  into  sharp  oppo- 
sition, such  a  rotation  of  verses  is  an  excellent 
means  of  indicating  the  contrast. 

The  expansion  which  the  rhythmic  sweep  of  the 
Greek  drama  had,  the  Germans  cannot  imitate. 
Owing  to  the  character  of  our  speech,  we  are  in  a 
position  to  set  over  against  one  another  in  our 
dramatic  composition,  every  four  verses  as  a  unit, 
so  that  the  hearer  will  distinctly  perceive  coinci- 
dence and  contrast  of  accent.  In  a  recitation, 
which  makes  the  logical  side  less  prominent,  and 
brings  out  the  euphony  which  allows  the  voice 
stronger  variations,  one  may  set  a  longer  series  of 
verses  effectively  over  against  another.  If  the 
Greeks,  by  means  of  their  art  in  recitation,  could 
combine  ten  trimeters  into  a  unit,  and  in  the  reply 
to  this,  could  repeat  the  same  accent  and  cadence, 
there  is  nothing  incomprehensible  to  us  in  it. 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  335 

Possibly,  in  the  older  times  of  Greek  tragedy,  there 
were  a  number  of  recitation  melodies,  or  refrains, 
which  were  specially  invented  for  each  piece,  or 
were  already  known  to  the  hearers,  and  which  with- 
out elevating  the  speaking  tones  of  the  recitation  to 
a  song,  bound  a  longer  group  of  verses  into  a  unit. 

This  method  of  delivery  is  not  to  be  used  by  us. 
Even  in  using  the  customary  rotation  verses,  which 
beat,  one  against  one,  two  against  two,  three  against 
three,  a  limit  is  set.  For  our  kind  of  dramatic 
composition  rebels  against  any  artifice  which 
restrains  the  movements  of  characters  and  their 
sentiments.  The  pleasure  from  the  rhetoric  of  such 
counter-speeches  is  less  than  the  danger  that  the 
truth  of  representation  may  be  lessened  by  artistic 
limitation.  The  poet  will,  therefore,  do  well  to 
modify  this  little  effect,  and  take  from  it  the  severity 
and  appearance  of  artificiality  ;  this  may  be  done  by 
interspersing  parallel  propositions  in  verse,  with 
irregularly  placed  verses. 

In  the  soul  of  the  poet,  at  the  same  time  with 
the  foundation  of  the  characters  and  the  beginnings 
of  the  action,  the  color  begins  to  flash.  This  pecu- 
liar adjunct  of  every  subject  matter  is  more 
developed  among  us  moderns  than  in  earlier  times ; 
for  historical  culture  has  greatly  enhanced  our  sense 
for,  and  interest  in  what  deviates  from  our  own  life. 
Character  and  action  are  conceived  by  the  poet  in 
the  peculiar  circumstances  which  the  time,  the 
place,  the  relations  of  the  civilization  in  the  time  of 
the  real  hero,  his  manner  of  speech  and  of  dealing, 


336      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

his  costume,  and  the  forms  of  intercourse,  —  have  in 
contrast  with  our  own  time  and  life.  Whatever  of 
the  original  clings  to  the  material  of  a  play  carries 
the  poet  back  in  his  artistic  work,  to  the  speech  of 
his  hero,  to  his  surroundings,  even  down  to  his  cos- 
tume, the  scenery  and  stage  properties.  These 
peculiarities  the  poet  idealizes.  He  perceives  them 
as  determined  by  the  idea  of  the  piece.  A  good 
color  is  an  important  matter.  It  works  at  the 
beginning  of  the  piece,  at  once  stimulating  and 
enchanting  to  the  hearer ;  it  remains  to  the  end  a 
charming  ingredient,  which  may  sometimes  serve  to 
cover  weaknesses  in  the  action. 

These  embellishing  colors  do  not  develop  in 
every  poet  with  equal  vividness  ;  they  do  not  come  to 
light  with  the  same  energy  in  every  subject.  But 
they  never  entirely  fail  where  characters  and  human 
circumstances  are  depicted.  They  are  indispensable 
to  the  epic  and  the  romance,  as  they  are  to  the 
drama.  Color  is  of  the  most  importance  in  his- 
torical themes ;  it  helps  here  to  characterize  the 
heroes.  The  dramatic  character  itself,  must,  in  its 
feeling  and  its  volition,  have  an  import  which  brings 
it  much  nearer  a  cultured  man  of  the  present,  than 
its  original  in  reality  corresponds  to  our  conception 
of  it.  But  it  is  the  color  which  gracefully  covers 
for  the  hearer  the  inner  contradiction  between  the 
man  in  history  and  the  hero  in  the  drama  ;  the  hero 
and  his  action  it  clothes  with  the  beautiful  appear- 
ance of  a  strange  being,  alluring  to  the  imagination. 

The  newer  stage  rightly  takes  pains,  therefore, 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  337 

to  express  in  the  costume  which  it  gives  to  the 
actors,  the  time  in  which  the  piece  is  laid,  the  social 
position,  and  many  peculiarities  of  the  characters 
presented.  We  are  now  separated  by  about  a  cen- 
tury from  the  time  when  Caesar  came  upon  the 
German  stage  with  dagger  and  wig,  and  Semiramis 
adorned  her  riding  coat  with  much  strange  tinsel, 
and  her  hair  with  many  jewels  and  striking  trim- 
mings, in  order  to  give  herself  a  foreign  appearance. 
Now,  on  many  prominent  stages,  imitation  of  his- 
torical costume  has  gone  very  far ;  but  in  the 
majority  of  cases,  it  remains  far  behind  the  demands 
which  the  audience,  in  its  average  historical  know- 
ledge, is  justified  in  demanding  with  respect  to 
scenic  equipment.  It  is  clear  that  it  is  not  the  duty 
of  the  stage  to  imitate  antiquarian  peculiarities  ;  but 
it  is  just  as  clear  that  it  must  avoid  shocking  a 
multitude  of  its  patrons  by  forcing  its  heroes  into  a 
costume  which,  perhaps,  nowhere  and  never,  cer- 
tainly not  in  this  century,  was  possible.  If  the  poet 
must  keep  aloof  the  antiquarian  enthusiasm  of  the 
over-zealous  from  the  clothing  of  his  heroes,  because 
the  unusual,  the  unaccustomed  in  accessory  does  not 
advance,  but  rather  disorders  his  piece,  he  will 
oftener  have  occasion,  in  for  instance,  a  Hohen- 
staufen  drama,  to  forbid  a  Spanish  mantle,  and  to 
refuse  to  put  upon  a  Saxon  emperor  a  glittering 
lead  armor,  which  changes  his  Ottos  and  Henrys 
into  gold-beetles,  and  proves  by  their  intolerable 
brilliancy  that  they  were  never  struck  by  a  blow 
from  a  sword. 


338      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

The  same  holds  true  with  the  scenery  and  stage 
properties.  A  rococo  table  in  a  scene  from  the 
fifteenth  century,  or  a  Greek  pillared  hall  where 
King  Romulus  walks,  have  already  been  long  pain- 
ful to  the  spectator.  In  order  to  make  such  remiss- 
nesses  difficult  for  individual  directors  and  actors, 
the  poet  will  do  well,  in  pieces  from  ancient  or 
remote  times,  to  prescribe  exactly  upon  a  page 
devoted  to  that  purpose,  not  only  the  scenic 
apparatus  but  the  costumes. 

But  the  most  important  means  for  his  use  in 
giving  color  to  his  piece,  is  the  language.  It  is  true, 
the  iambus  has  a  certain  tone  color  and  modifies  the 
characteristic  expression  more  than  prose.  But  it 
admits  of  a  great  wealth  of  light  and  shade ;  it 
allows  even  to  words  a  slight  tint  in  dialect. 

In  subjects  from  remote  times,  a  language  must 
be  invented,  possessing  a  color  corresponding  to  the 
period.  This  is  a  beautiful,  delightful  labor,  which 
the  creating  poet  must  undertake  right  joyfully. 
This  work  will  be  most  advanced  by  a  careful  read- 
ing of  the  written  monuments  received  from  the 
hero's  time.  This  strange  speech  works  sugges- 
tively on  the  mind  of  the  poet,  by  its  peculiar 
accents,  its  syntactical  structure,  its  popular  forms 
of  expression.  And  with  pen  in  hand,  the  poet 
arranges  what  appears  useful  to  him  for  powerful 
expression, — striking  imagery,  telling  comparison, 
proverbial  dialect.  Among  every  foreign  people 
whose  literature  is  accessible,  such  work  is  benefi- 
cial, and  most  advantageous  with  respect  to  any 


VERSE  AND  COLOR.  339 

nation's  own  earlier  times.  Our  language  had  in 
former  periods,  as  the  Sclavonic  has  still,  a  far 
greater  proportion  of  figurative  expressions,  sugges- 
tive to  the  power  of  imagination.  The  sense  of  the 
words  had  not  been  evaporated  through  a  long  sci- 
entific labor;  everywhere  there  attached  to  them 
something  of  the  first  mental  expression,  from  the 
popular  mind  where  they  originated.  The  number 
of  proverbs  is  large,  as  also  is  the  number  of  terse 
forms  and  Biblical  phrases,  which  the  reflections 
of  our  time  replace.  Such  ingredients  the  creating 
artist  may  hold  firmly  in  mind ;  upon  their  melody 
his  talent  amplifies  almost  involuntarily,  the  ground 
tone  and  moods  of  the  speech  of  the  drama. 

With  such  an  inspection  of  the  written  works  of 
old  times,  there  remain  connected  with  the  poet,  still 
others,  —  little  traits  of  character,  anecdotes,  many 
striking  things  which  may  complete  and  illuminate 
his  pictures. 

What  he  has  thus  found,  he  must  not  use  pedan- 
tically nor  insert  in  his  speeches  like  arabesques ; 
each  item  may  signify  something  to  him ;  but  the 
suggestion  which  he  receives  from  it,  is  of  highest 
value. 

This  mood  which  he  has  given  his  soul  does  not 
forsake  him ;  even  while  he  is  conducting  his  hero 
through  the  scenes,  it  will  suggest  to  him,  not 
only  the  right  kind  of  language,  but  the  cooperation 
of  persons,  the  way  they  behave  toward  each  other, 
forms  of  intercourse,  customs  and  usages  of  the 
time. 


340      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

All  this  is  true  of  the  characters  and  their  move- 
ments in  the  scenes.  For  at  every  point  in  the 
drama,  in  every  sentiment,  in  every  act,  that  which 
in  the  material  of  the  play  struck  us  as  characteristic, 
clings  to  what  is  humanly  exalted  in  the  ideal  fig- 
ures as  embellishing  additions.  It  is  seldom  neces- 
sary to  warn  the  poet  that  he  is  not  to  do  too  much 
with  these  colors  toward  scenic  effects ;  for  his 
highest  task  is,  of  course,  to  have  his  heroes  speak 
our  language  of  passion,  and  exhibit  what  is  charac- 
teristic in  them,  in  such  vital  expressions  as  are 
intelligible  to  every  period,  because,  in  every  time 
they  are  possible  and  conceivable. 

Thus  the  color  of  the  piece  is  visible  in  the 
endowment  of  language,  in  the  characters,  in  the 
details  of  the  action.  What  the  poet  communicates 
to  his  play  by  color,  is  as  little  an  imitation  of 
reality,  as  his  heroes  are, — it  is  free  creation.  But 
this  accessory  helps  so  much  the  more  to  conjure 
up  a  picture  in  the  imagination  of  the  hearer,  which 
has  the  beautiful  appearance  of  historic  truth,  the 
more  earnestly  the  poet  has  taken  it  upon  himself 
to  master  the  real  circumstances  of  that  old  time, 
if  he  does  not  lack  the  power  of  reproducing  what 
he  perceived  to  be  attractive. 


CHAPTER  VI. 
THE    POET   AND    HIS   WORK. 

Great  is  the  wealth  of  beauty  in  the  poetry  of 
past  peoples  and  times,  specially  in  the  century  of 
our  great  poets  who  form  the  judgment  and  excite 
the  imagination  of  the  poet  of  the  present.  This 
immeasurable  wealth  of  the  products  of  art  is  per- 
haps the  greatest  blessing  for  a  future  in  which  the 
popular  energy  works  most  powerfully,  taking  up 
what  has  affinity  for  it  and  casting  off  what  resists 
it.  But  during  a  time  of  weak  rest  of  the  national 
spirit,  this  inheritance  was  a  disadvantage  for  the 
creative  activity  of  the  poets,  because  it  favored  a 
lack  of  distinctive  style.  Only  a  few  years  ago,  in 
Germany,  it  was  almost  an  accident  whether  an 
Athenian  or  a  Roman,  Calderon  or  Shakespeare, 
whether  Goethe  or  Schiller,  Scribe  or  Dumas, 
attracted  the  soul  of  the  young  poet  into  the  magic 
circle  of  their  style  and  their  forms. 

The  poet  of  the  present  begins,  furthermore,  as 
a  beneficiary  who  richly  receives,  and  is  thereby 
incited  to  his  own  creative  activity.  He  has, 
usually,  no  life  occupation  which  binds  him  to  a 
particular,  definite  field  of  poetry.  It  is  again  almost 
by  chance,  what  species  of  poetical  composition 

34i 


342      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

attracts  him.  He  may  let  his  sentiments  ring  out 
in  lyrics ;  he  may  write  a  romance ;  at  last  the 
theater  entices  him, — the  brilliance  of  the  author's 
evening,  the  applause  of  the  audience,  the  power  of 
the  received  tragic  impressions.  There  are  few 
German  poets  who  have  not  first  commended  them- 
selves to  the  public,  in  a  volume  of  lyrics,  then  tried 
their  luck  on  the  stage,  and  finally  contented  them- 
selves with  the  more  quiet  success  of  a  romance. 
Without  any  doubt,  their  poetic  talent  showed 
greatest  capability  in  one  of  these  directions.  But 
as  external  relations  laid  no  restrictions  on  them, 
and  now  one,  now  another  field  attracted  more 
strongly,  the  circle  in  which  their  power  moved  with 
greatest  freedom,  did  not  come  into  fullest  comple- 
tion. The  great  secret  of  a  rich  creative  activity  is 
limitation  to  a  single  branch  of  the  beautiful  art. 
This  the  Hellenes  knew  very  well.  Whoever  wrote 
tragedies,  let  comedy  alone.  Whoever  used  hexa- 
meter, avoided  the  iambus. 

But  the  poet,  also,  to  whom  the  creation  of 
dramatic  figures  is  a  necessity,  lives,  if  he  does  not 
stride  upon  the  boards  as  an  actor  or  director,  apart 
from  the  theater.  He  may  write  or  not.  External 
pressure,  a  mighty  lever  to  move  talent,  is  almost 
entirely  wanting.  The  theater  has  become  the 
daily  pleasure  of  the  peaceful  citizen,  and  collects 
not  the  worst,  but  not  the  most  pretentious  social 
element.  In  this  large  expansion,  it  has  lost  some 
of  the  dignity  and  loftiness  which  the  poet  might 
wish  for  the  drama  of  serious  style.  There  are 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  343 

brought  on  the  stage,  buffoonery,  opera,  comedy, 
forms  and  theories  of  life  of  different  centuries. 
All  is  sought  which  can  please,  the  newest,  the 
most  singular;  and,  again,  what  affords  the  great 
multitude  most  pleasure,  thrusts  all  else  aside. 

The  resources  of  material  for  the  poet  have 
become  almost  boundless, — the  Greek  and  the 
Roman  worlds,  the  Middle  Ages.  Sacred  writings 
and  poetry  of  the  Jews  and  Christians,  even  the  peo- 
ple of  the  Orient,  history,  legends  of  the  present, 
open  their  treasures  to  the  searcher.  But  this  offers 
the  disadvantage,  that  with  such  infinite  material,  a 
choice  becomes  difficult,  and  is  almost  an  accident, 
and  that  none  of  these  sources  is  in  a  condition  to 
attract  the  German  exclusively,  or  preferably. 
Finally,  for  the  German,  as  it  appears,  the  time  has 
not  yet  come  when  the  dramatic  life  of  the  people, 
itself,  flows  out  richly  and  unimpeded.  Gladly 
would  we  see  in  the  appearances  of  the  newest 
present  the  beginnings  of  a  new  development  of 
national  character,  beginnings  which  do  not  yet  con- 
tribute to  art.  That  it  is  still  so  difficult  for  the 
dramatic  poet  to  raise  himself  from  the  epic  and 
lyric  conception  of  character  and  of  situations,  is  no 
accident. 

But  the  poet  must  labor  for  the  stage.  Only  in 
connection  with  the  actor's  art  does  he  produce  the 
best  results  which  are  possible  to  his  poetry.  The 
reading  drama  is  fundamentally  only  a  makeshift 
of  a  time  in  which  the  full  power  of  dramatic  crea- 
tion has  not  yet  appeared  among  a  people,  or  has 


344       FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

disappeared  again.  The  species  is  an  old  one. 
Already  among  the  Greeks  pieces  were  written  for 
recitation,  and  still  more  of  the  Latin  recitation 
pieces  have  been  transmitted  to  us.  Among  the 
Germans,  the  reading  drama,  from  the  early  come- 
dies of  nun  Hroswith,  through  the  stylistic  attempts 
of  the  first  humanists,  even  to  the  greatest  poem  of 
our  language,  has  a  long  history.  Infinitely  varied 
is  the  poetical  worth  of  these  works.  But  the 
employment  of  poetic  form  for  dramatic  effects, 
which  renounce  the  claim  of  being  the  highest  of 
their  species,  is  considered,  on  the  whole,  a  limita- 
tion, against  which  art  itself  and  the  interested 
reader  protests. 

In  the  pages  of  this  book,  the  attempt  has  been 
made  to  show  that  the  technical  work  of  the 
dramatic  composer  is  not  entirely  easy  and  free 
from  pains.  This  kind  of  poetry  demands  more 
from  the  poet  than  any  other.  It  demands  a 
peculiar,  but  rarely  found  capability  for  representing 
the  mental  processes  of  men  of  significant  and 
unusual  power  of  action ;  a  nature  well  tempered 
with  passion  and  clearness  of  vision ;  a  developed 
and  certain  poetic  endowment,  and  a  knowledge  of 
men,  as  well  as  what  in  real  life,  is  called  character; 
an  accurate  knowledge  of  the  stage  and  its  needs 
must  be  added.  And  yet  it  is  striking,  that  of  the 
many  who  make  incursions  into  this  field  of  creative 
work,  the  most  are  only  dilettanti  friends  of  the 
beautiful ;  but  just  these  choose  the  most  exacting 
labor,  and  such  a  one  as  promises  them  the  very 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  345 

least  success.  It  is  indeed  serious  work  to  write  a 
romance  which  merits  the  name  of  work  of  art ;  but 
every  educated  person  with  constructive  skill  and 
knowledge  of  men,  who  has  not  attempted  anything 
as  a  poet,  may  offer  something  readable,  wherein 
single  significant  impressions  of  real  life,  what  he 
has  seen,  what  he  has  felt,  arc  spiritedly  interwoven. 
Why  docs  the  most  capricious  muse  of  all  muses,  so 
unapproachable,  so  ill-mannered  toward  everybody 
who  does  not  wholly  belong  to  her,  —  why  does  she 
attract  cultured  men,  very  capable  men  ?  What 
enemy  of  their  life  guides  just  such  warm-hearted 
friends,  who  busy  themselves  with  poetry  during 
their  hours  of  leisure  from  active  duties,  into  a 
poetical  field,  in  which  the  closest  combination 
of  an  always  rare  constructive  energy,  with  an 
unusual,  firm,  secure  mastery  of  the  forms  of  art,  is 
the  assumed  condition  of  lasting  success  ?  Does  a 
secret  longing  of  man  for  what  is  most  lacking  in 
him,  possibly,  lead  him  astray  ?  And  does  the 
dilettanti,  just  for  this  reason,  seek  to  develop  the 
drama  in  himself,  because  it  is  denied  him,  with  all 
his  poetic  visions,  to  animate  creatively  his  restless 
fluttering  feelings  in  the  body  of  any  other  form  of 
art?  Undeniably,  the  attempts  of  such  persons 
to  labor  for  the  stage,  arc  vain  and  hopeless.  But 
for  the  poet  who  has  been  equipped  for  all  his  life 
with  dramatic  power,  we  wish,  before  all  other  pos- 
sessions, a  firm  and  patient  heart.  He  must,  how- 
ever, bring  to  his  employment  still  another  means 
of  advancement ;  he  must  feel  quickly  and  joyfully 


346      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

what  is  charming  in  a  subject,  and  yet  have  the 
deliberation  to  carry  it  within  his  breast  till  it  is 
natural.  Before  he  ascends  the  stage  as  creative 
genius,  he  must  for  a  long  time  make  himself  inti- 
mate with  the  chief  laws  of  creation ;  for  he  must 
understand  how  to  prove  whether  a  subject  is  useful, 
in  the  essentials.  Even  in  this,  judgment  must 
from  the  first  moment  watch  over  his  warm  heart, 
where  the  charm  of  composition  arises  ;  a  play  which 
has  failed,  means  to  him,  on  the  average,  a  year  of 
his  life  lost. 

The  imagination  of  different  poets  does  not  seize 
upon  material  with  equal  rapidity ;  the  beginner's 
seeking  soul  hovers  lightly  about  any  summit  which 
offers  itself,  and  the  nest  is  built  beneath  the  first 
budding  branch.  He  who  is  warned  by  experience, 
becomes  critical  and  tests  too  long.  Often  it  is  not 
an  accident  that  suggests  a  subject  to  the  soul,  but 
the  mood  and  impressions  of  the  soul's  own  life, 
which  attract  the  fancy  in  a  definite  direction. 
For  the  soul  works  secretly  upon  a  piece  before  it 
finds  hero  and  chief  scenes ;  and  what  it  demands 
from  the  material  is  that  this  may  offer  the  possi- 
bility of  certain  scenic  effects. 

The  difficulties  which  the  various  subjects  and 
materials  offer,  have  been  made  sufficiently  promi- 
nent. But  he  who  finds  it  difficult  to  decide,  may 
consider  that  it  depends  on  the  power  of  his  talents 
whether,  in  most  events,  they  are  changed  into  a 
useful  action.  A  positive  poetic  power  needs  only 
a  few  moments  out  of  legend,  history,  narrative, 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  347 

only  one  strong  and    momentous    contrast,    out    ot 
which  to  form  an  action. 

If  the  dramatic  poet  of  old  times  found  these 
traits  in  the  legend  shortly  before  the  destruction  of 
the  hero  of  the  epic,  it  may  yet  be  asked  whether, 
in  historical  dramas,  it  is  just  as  necessary  to  make 
the  chief  heroes  of  this  sort  the  central  figures  in  an 
action,  that  this  may  have  its  movements  about 
them,  their  adventures,  and  their  overthrow.  How 
difficult  and  perilous  it  is  to  make  use  artistically  of 
an  historical  life,  has  already  been  discussed.  Let  it 
not  be  objected  that  the  greater  historical  interest 
which  the  heroes  awaken,  and  the  patriotic  enthusi- 
asm which  the  poet  and  the  spectator  alike  bring  to 
them,  make  them  specially  adapted  to  the  drama. 
The  old  German  history  offers  comparatively  few 
heroic  figures  whose  remembrance  is  dear  through 
a  great  interest,  in  the  present  time.  What  to  our 
people  are  the  emperors  of  the  Saxon,  Prankish, 
Staufen,  or  Hapsburg  houses  ?  The  purposes  for 
which  they  conquered  and  died  are  perhaps  con- 
demned by  the  convictions  of  the  present  time;  the 
struggles  of  their  life  have  remained  with  no  occur- 
rences easily  understood  by  us ;  for  the  popular 
mind,  they  are  dead  and  buried.  But  further,  the 
conscientious  poet,  before  the  not  numerous  histori- 
cal heroes  who  still  live  in  the  memory  of  the 
people,  will  recognize  new  restrictions  which  narrow 
the  freshness  of  his  creative  power.  Just  this 
patriotic  sympathy  which  he  brings  with  him,  and 
expects  from  the  hearer,  lessens  the  superior  free- 


348      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

dom  with  which,  as  poet,  he  must  hover  over  every 
character,  and  misleads  him  into  special  kinds  of  pre- 
sentation or  a  sort  of  portrait  sketching.  If  once,  to 
one  German  poet,  the  dramatic  figure  of  the  great 
Elector  has  been  successful,  Luther,  Maria  Theresa, 
"Old  Fritz,"  have  only  so  much  the  more  fre- 
quently failed. 

But  it  is  riot  at  all  necessary  to  make  historical 
kings  and  generals,  the  heroes  of  an  historical 
drama,  which  can  be  constructed  advantageously  on 
only  a  little  period  of  their  historical  life.  Much 
more  agreeably  and  profitably  may  be  exhibited 
the  reaction  which  their  lives  have  had  upon  the 
lives  of  others.  How  well  has  Schiller  done  this  in 
Don  Carlos,  in  Mary  Stuart!  The  Phillip  of  the 
former  play  is  a  brilliant  example,  showing  how  an 
historical  character  is  to  be  used  as  a  partner  in  a 
play. 

With  the  life  of  well-known  historical  heroes  a 
multitude  of  figures  is  connected,  of  whom  single 
characteristic  traits  have  been  reported ;  and  these 
successfully  incite  free  invention.  These  accessory 
figures  of  history,  whose  life  and  its  events  the 
poet  has  at  his  free  disposal,  are  specially  conven- 
ient. One  treasonous  act  and  its  punishment,  one 
passionate  deed  of  hatred  and  its  consequences,  one 
scene  from  a  great  family  quarrel,  one  defiant 
struggle  or  sly  play  against  a  superior  power,  give 
him  an  abundant  material.  And  such  traits  and 
such  incidents  are  found  on  every  page  of  our  his- 
tory, as  in  the  history  of  all  civilized  nations. 


THE    POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  349 

Whoever  is  conscious  of  his  own  power  chooses 
his  pictures  confidently,  rather  from  the  materials 
not  yet  arranged  for  art,  but  found  in  the  real  life  of 
the  past,  and  of  modern  times,  than  from  such 
stock  as  is  offered  him  from  the  other  species  of 
poetry.  For  the  serious  drama,  material  taken  from 
romances  and  modern  novels  is  not  of  much 
account.  If  Shakespeare  used  material  from  novels, 
his  sources  were,  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  only 
short  anecdotes,  in  which,  of  course,  an  artistic  con- 
sistency and  a  powerful  conclusion  are  already 
present.  In  the  elaborated  epic  narrative  of  the 
present,  the  fancy  of  the  poet  shows  its  power  fre- 
quently, just  in  effects  which  are  intrinsically  hostile 
to  the  dramatist;  and  the  embellished  and  agreeable 
elaboration  of  the  men  and  the  situations  in  the 
romance,  may  rather  dull  than  sharpen  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  dramatist.  He  will  hardly  do  wrong  to 
the  property  of  another  if  he  draws  his  material 
from  this  circle  of  invention.  For  if  he  is  an  artist, 
very  little  will  pass  from  the  creation  of  another 
over  into  his  drama. 

The  tragic  poet  is  able,  of  course,  to  invent  his 
action  without  using  any  material  already  at  hand. 
But  indeed,  this  happens  less  often,  and  with  more 
difficulty  than  one  would  suppose.  Among  the 
great  dramas  of  our  stage,  just  as  it  once  was  in 
ancient  times,  there  are  few  which  are  not  con- 
structed from  already  used  material.  For  it  is  a 
characteristic  of  the  power  of  imagination,  that  it 
perceives  more  vividly  and  exactly  the  movements 


350      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

in  the  life  of  men,  if  it  can  attach  itself  to  a  partic- 
ular figure  and  its  adventures.  The  image  which 
imagination  discovers  for  itself  is  not  so  easily 
made  firm  and  powerful,  that  there  is  inclination  to 
put  upon  it  steady  and  assiduous  labor. 

And  yet  one  conviction  the  poet  may  keep  in 
his  quiet  soul,  that  no  material  is  entirely  good,  little 
wholly  bad.  From  this  side  also,  there  is  no  per- 
fect work  of  art.  Every  subject  has  its  inherent 
difficulties  and  disadvantages  which  the  art  of  the 
poet  is  so  far  able  to  overcome,  that  the  whole 
gives  the  impression  of  beauty  and  greatness. 
These  weaknesses  are  to  be  recognized,  but  only  by 
the  practiced  eye ;  and  every  work  of  art  gives  the 
critic,  from  this  point  of  view,  occasion  for  the 
exercise  of  his  functions.  He  who  judges  must  be 
on  the  lookout,  that  in  the  face  of  this  deficiency, 
he  understands  whether  the  poet  has  done  his  duty, 
whether  he  has  used  all  the  means  of  his  art,  to 
master  or  to  conceal. 

In  the  joyful  consciousness  that  he  is  beginning 
a  gallant  work,  the  poet  must  sternly  take  his  posi- 
tion over  against  what  has  become  dear  to  him,  and 
test  it,  so  soon  as  his  soul  begins  to  move  about  the 
accumulated  material  to  beautify  it.  He  will  have 
to  make  the  idea  distinct,  and  eliminate  everything 
accidental  that  clings  to  it  from  reality. 

To  the  first  charm  that  becomes  ardent  in  his 
soul,  belong  characteristic  utterances  of  the  hero  in 
single  moments  of  his  inner  agitation  or  powerful 
activity.  In  order  to  increase  the  number  of  the 


THE   POET  AND  HIS  WORK.  351 

pictures  of  such  moments,  and  in  order  to  inten- 
sify the  characters,  he  will  earnestly  seek  to  under- 
stand the  real  life  and  surroundings  of  his  hero. 
He  will,  therefore,  contemplating  a  historical  drama, 
make  good  studies,  and  this  labor  will  have  rich 
reward;  for  from  it  appear  to  him  a  great  number 
of  visions  and  pictures  which  may  be  readily  joined 
in  imagination  to  the  growing  work.  The  grateful 
soul  of  the  German  has,  for  just  such  characterizing 
details,  a  very  sensitive  feeling;  and  the  poet  will 
therefore  have  need  to  be  on  his  guard  that  historic 
costume,  the  historic  marvellous  and  infrequent  do 
not  assume  too  much  importance. 

If  he  has  in  this  way  extended,  as  much  as  possi- 
ble, the  world  of  his  artistic  vision,  then  let  him 
throw  aside  his  books,  and  wrestle  for  the  freedom 
which  is  necessary  to  him,  in  order  to  have  free  play 
upon  the  accumulated  material.  But  let  him  hold 
fast  in  his  mind,  as  a  restraint  upon  his  directing 
power,  four  rules :  a  short  course  to  the  action,  few 
persons,  few  changes,  and  even  in  the  first  plan, 
strong  relief  to  the  important  parts  of  the  action. 

He  may  write  out  his  plans  or  not;  on  the 
whole,  this  is  not  of  much  account.  Elaborate 
written  explanations  have  this  advantage,  that  they 
make  single  purposes  distinct  through  reflection; 
but  they  have  the  disadvantage,  that  they  easily 
clog  the  imagination,  and  render  more  difficult  the 
necessary  transformation  and  elimination.  One 
sheet  is  enough  to  contain  a  perfect  outline. 

Before  the  poet  begins  his  elaboration,  the  char- 


352      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

actors  of  his  heroes  and  their  positions  relative  to 
one  another,  must  be  clearly  fixed  in  mind,  in  all 
essentials ;  and  so  the  results  of  each  single  scene. 
Then  during  the  labor,  the  scenes  take  shape  easily, 
as  does  their  dramatic  course. 

Of  course,  this  serious  labor  before  beginning  to 
write  does  not  exclude  minor  changes  in  the  char- 
acters ;  for  the  creative  skill  of  the  poet  does  not 
stand  still.  He  intends  to  direct  his  characters, 
and  they  impel  him.  It  is  a  joyful  process  which 
he  notices  in  himself  as  the  conceived  characters, 
through  his  creative  power  and  under  the  logical 
force  of  events,  become  living  beings.  A  new 
invention  attaches  to  one  already  expressed  —  and 
suddenly  there  flames  up  a  beautiful  and  great 
effect.  And  while  the  goal  and  resting-place  by 
the  way  are  fixed  in  his  clear  gaze,  the  surging 
feeling  labors  over  the  effects,  exciting  and  exalt- 
ing the  poet  himself.  It  is  a  strong  inner  excite- 
ment, cheering  and  strengthening  the  favorably 
endowed  poet ;  for  above  the  most  violent  agitation, 
through  the  fancy  which  in  the  most  passionate 
parts  of  his  action  excites  his  nerves  almost  to 
convulsion  and  reddens  his  cheeks,  the  spirit 
hovers  in  perfect  clearness,  ruling,  choosing  freely, 
and  ordering  and  arranging  systematically 

The  labor  of  the  same  poet  is  different  at  different 
moments.  Many  of  these  appear  to  him  brilliant ; 
their  previously  perceived  effects  move  his  spirit 
animatedly ;  what  has  been  written  down  appears 
only  as  a  weak  copy  of  a  glowing  inner  picture, 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  353 

whose  magic  color  has  vanished ;  other  moments 
develop  perhaps,  slowly,  not  without  effort;  the 
fancy  is  sluggish,  the  nerve-tension  not  strong 
enough  ;  and  sometimes  it  seems  as  if  the  creative 
power  rebels  against  the  situation.  Such  scenes, 
however,  are  not  always,  the  worst. 

The  force  of  creative  energy,  too,  is  quite  vary- 
ing. One  is  rapid  in  the  labor  of  writing  down 
what  is  composed ;  to  another,  forms  take  shape 
slowly,  and  do  not  express  themselves  fluently  on 
paper.  The  more  rapid  workers  do  not  always  have 
the  advantage.  Their  danger  is  that  they  often  fix 
the  images  too  soon,  before  the  work  of  fancy  has 
reached  the  needed  maturity.  It  is  often  possible 
for  the  poet  to  say  to  himself,  that  the  inner  uncon- 
scious labor  is  done,  and  to  recognize  the  moment 
when  the  details  of  the  effects  have  been  rightly 
completed.  The  maturing  of  the  pictures,  however, 
is  an  important  matter ;  and  it  is  a  peculiarity  of 
creative  power,  that,  as  we  might  say,  it  is  in  opera- 
tion at  hours  in  which  the  poet  is  not  consciously  at 
his  work. 

Not  unimportant  is  the  order  of  sequence  in 
which  the  poet  writes  out  his  piece.  For  one,  the 
well  trained  imagination  works  out  scenes  and  acts 
in  regular  succession  ;  for  another,  it  seizes  on,  now 
this,  now  that  part  of  a  great  effect.  What  has 
been  written  comes  to  exercise  a  controlling  influ- 
ence on  what  is  to  be  written.  As  soon  as  concep- 
tion and  vision  and  feeling  are  recorded  in  words, 
they  stand  face  to  face  with  the  poet  as  an  outsider 


354      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA 

giving  direction ;  they  suggest  the  new,  and  their 
color  and  their  effects  change  what  may  come  later. 
Whoever  works  in  the  regular  order  will  have  the 
advantage  that  mood  develops  from  mood,  situa- 
tion from  situation,  in  regular  course.  He  will  not 
always  avoid  making  the  way  over  which  he  would 
guide  his  characters,  deviate  a  little  and  gradually, 
under  his  hands.  It  appears  that  Schiller  has  so 
worked.  Whoever,  on  the  other  hand,  sets  before 
himself  what  the  sportive  fancy  has  vividly  illumi- 
nated, will  probably  supervise  more  securely  the 
aggregate  effect  and  movement  of  his  masterpiece ; 
he  will,  however,  now  here,  now  there,  during  his 
labor,  have  to  make  changes  in  motives  and  in  indi- 
vidual traits.  This  was,  at  least  in  single  cases,  the 
work  of  Goethe. 

When  the  piece  has  been  completed  beyond  the 
catastrophe,  and  the  heart  is  exalted  with  gladness 
on  account  of  the  finished  work,  then  the  reaction 
which  prevails  everywhere  after  a  highly  excited 
frame  of  mind,  begins.  The  soul  of  the  poet  is  still 
very  warm,  the  aggregate  of  beauty  which  he  has 
created,  and  enjoyed  while  creating,  the  inner  image 
which  he  has  of  its  effects,  he  embodies  still  uncon- 
fused  in  the  written  work.  It  appears  to  him, 
according  to  the  mood  of  the  hour,  either  a  failure 
or  a  vast  success ;  on  the  whole,  if  in  a  normal  state 
of  mind,  he  will  feel  an  inclination  to  trust  to  the 
power  which  his  work  attests.  But  his  work  is  not 
yet  finished,  at  least  if  he  is  a  German.  If  the  poet 
writes  to  have  his  work  put  on  the  boards,  he  does 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  355 

not,  as  has  been  said,  yet  feel,  every  moment,  the 
impressions  which  the  forces  of  his  piece  produce  on 
the  stage.  Dramatic  power  works  unequally  also 
in  this  direction ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to  notice  the 
oscillations,  in  themselves.  They  may  be  perceived 
in  the  works  of  even  great  poets.  One  scene  is  dis- 
tinguished by  a  vivid  conception  of  the  scenic 
action,  the  discourse  is  broken,  the  effects  more 
exactly  harmonized  by  transitions ;  at  another  time, 
it  flows  more  agreeably  for  the  reader  than  for  the 
actor.  And  however  rightly  the  poet  may  have 
perceived  the  sum  of  scenic  effects,  in  detail,  the 
sense  of  the  words  and  the  effect  which,  from  the 
writing-table,  they  produce  on  the  receptive  mind, 
have  had  more  of  his  attention  than  their  sound, 
and  their  mediation  with  the  spectator  through  the 
actor.  But  not  only  does  the  actor's  right  prevail 
touching  a  piece,  requiring  here  greater  prominence 
of  one  effect,  there  a  modification  ;  but  the  audience 
is,  to  the  poet,  an  ideal  body  demanding  a  definite 
treatment.  As  the  power  of  imagination  was  greater 
in  the  hearer  in  the  time  of  Shakespeare,  the  enjoy- 
ment of  spoken  words  greater,  but  the  comprehen- 
sion of  connections  slower,  so  the  audience  of 
to-day  has  a  soul  with  definite  qualities.  It  has 
already  taken  up  much,  its  comprehension  of  the 
connections  is  quick,  its  demands  for  powerful 
movement  are  great,  its  preference  for  definite 
kinds  of  situations  is  inordinately  developed. 

The  poet  will  therefore  be  compelled  to  adapt 
his  work  to  the  actor's  art  and  the  demands  of  the 


356      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

public.  This  business,  the  stage  term  of  which  is 
"adapting"  (aptireii},  the  poet  is  able  only  in  rare 
cases  to  achieve  alone. 

In  the  land  of  dramatic  poetry, the  cutting  out  of 
passages  is  wrongly  in  bad  repute ;  it  is  rather 
(since  for  a  time,  the  creative  work  of  the  German 
poet  is  accustomed  to  begin  with  a  weak  develop- 
ment of  the  sense  of  form)  the  greatest  benefit 
which  can  be  conferred  upon  his  piece,  an  indis- 
pensable prerequisite  to  presentation  on  the  stage, 
the  one  means  of  insuring  success.  Further,  it 
is  frequently  a  right  which  the  actor's  art  must 
enforce  against  the  poet ;  omissions  are  the  in- 
visible helpers  which  adjust  the  demands  of  the 
spectator  and  the  claims  of  the  poet;  whoever  with 
quiet  enjoyment  perceives  clearly,  at  his  work- 
table,  the  poetical  beauty  of  a  piece,  thinks,  not 
willingly,  how  the  effects  will  be  changed  in  the 
light  of  the  stage.  Even  worthy  authors  who 
have  chosen  the  most  serviceable  calling  of 
explaining  to  their  contemporaries  the  beauties 
of  the  greatest  poets,  look  down  with  contempt 
on  a  tradesman's  custom  of  the  stage,  which 
unmercifully  mangles  the  most  beautiful  poetry. 
Only  from  the  brush  of  a  careful  manager  do  the 
beautiful  forms  in  the  masterpieces  of  Schiller  and 
Shakespeare  come  forward  in  the  right  proportion 
for  the  stage.  Of  course,  every  theater  does  not 
have  a  technical  director,  who  with  delicacy  and 
understanding  arranges  the  pieces  so  as  to  adapt 
them  to  the  stage.  Very  adverse  is  the  rude  hand 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  357 

that  cuts  into  the  dramatic  beauty,  because  it  may 
present  an  inconvenience  or  does  not  conform  to 
the  taste  of  an  exacting  audience.  But  the  misuse 
of  an  indispensable  means  should  not  bring  that 
means  into  ill-repute ;  and  if  one  would  depreciate 
the  complaints  of  the  poets,  over  the  misuse  of  their 
works,  according  to  their  justification,  one  would  in 
most  cases  do  them  wrong. 

Now  in  this  adapting  of  a  piece,  much  is  merely 
of  personal  opinion  ;  the  justification  of  many  single 
omissions  is  sometimes  doubtful.  The  direction  of 
a  theater,  which  has,  as  a  matier  of  course,  the 
effect  on  a  particular  stage  in  mind,  will  have  greater 
regard  to  the  personality  of  its  actors  than  will  be 
welcome  to  the  poet  before  the  presentation.  To 
an  able  actor  who  is  specially  esteemed  by  the 
audience,  the  director  will  sometimes  allow  to  re- 
main what  is  unnecessary ;  when  he  expects  some 
good  result  from  it,  he  may  take  an  accessory 
effect  from  a  role  whose  setting  must  be  imperfect, 
if  he  is  convinced  that  the  actor  is  unable  to  bring 
it  out. 

The  author  of  a  work  must  not,  therefore,  leave 
the  cutting  down  of  his  play  entirely  to  strangers. 
He  can  accomplish  it  himself  if  he  has  had  long 
experience  with  the  stage ;  but  otherwise  he  will 
need  the  aid  of  other  hands.  He  must  reserve  to 
himself  the  last  judgment  in  the  matter;  and  he  will 
not  usually  allow  the  management  to  abridge  his 
piece  without  his  approval.  But  he  will,  with  self- 
denial,  listen  to  the  opinions  of  men  who  have  had 


358      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

greater  experience,  and  have  an  inclination  to  yield 
to  them  where  his  artistic  conscience  does  not 
make  concessions  impossible  for  him.  But  since 
his  judgment  is  hardly  unembarrassed,  he  must,  at 
the  first  intrusion  of  a  benevolent  criticism  into  his 
soul,  wind  about  through  uncertainty  and  inner 
struggles,  to  the  great  exercise  of  his  judgment. 
The  first  disturbance  in  the  pleasant  peace  of  a 
poetic  mind,  which  is  just  rejoicing  in  a  completed 
work,  is  perhaps  painful  for  a  weak  soul ;  but  it  is 
as  wholesome  as  a  draft  of  fresh  air  in  the  sultry 
summer.  The  poet  is  to  respect  and  love  his  work 
so  long  as  he  bears  it  about  as  an  ideal,  and  works 
upon  it ;  the  completed  work  must  be  dismissed.  It 
must  be  as  if  strange  to  him,  in  order  that  he  may 
gain  freedom  for  new  work. 

And  yet  the  poet  must  attempt  the  first  adapta- 
tion, while  his  work  is  still  on  his  desk.  It  is  an 
unfriendly  business,  but  it  is  necessary.  Perhaps 
while  he  has  been  writing,  he  has  perceived  that 
some  parts  are  necessary.  Many  moods  which  have 
been  dear  to  him,  he  has  more  broadly  elaborated 
than  a  slight  warning  of  his  conscience  now 
approves.  Nay,  it  is  possible  that  his  work,  after 
the  completion  of  his  labor,  in  the  moment  when  he 
considers  it  done,  is  still  a  quite  chaotic  mass  of 
correct  and  artistic  effects,  and  of  episodical  or  in- 
juriously uneven  finish. 

Now  the  time  has  come  when  he  may  repair 
what  he  slighted  in  his  former  labor.  He  must  go 
through  scene  by  scene,  testing;  in  each  he  must 


THE   POET  AND  HIS  WORK.  359 

investigate  the  course  of  individual  roles,  the  pos- 
ing, the  proposed  movements  of  the  persons ;  he 
must  try  to  make  the  picture  of  the  scene  vivid 
at  each  moment  on  the  stage  ;  he  must  hit  upon 
the  exact  position  of  the  entrances  and  exits 
through  which  his  persons  come  upon  the  stage  and 
leave ;  he  must  consider,  also,  the  scenery  and  the 
properties,  whether  they  hinder  or  whether  they  aid 
as  much  as  possible. 

Not  less  carefully  let  him  examine  the  current 
of  the  scene  itself.  Perhaps  in  this  process  he  will 
discover  prolixities ;  for  to  one  writing,  an  acces- 
sory trait  of  character  may  easily  seem  too  import- 
ant ;  or  the  role  of  a  favorite  has  come  to  the  front 
in  a  way  to  disturb  the  aggregate  effect ;  or  the 
presentations  of  speeches  and  responses  are  too  fre- 
quent. Let  him  inexorably  expunge  what  does  not 
conduce  to  the  worth  of  the  scenic  structure,  how- 
ever beautiful  it  may  be  in  itself.  Let  him  go 
further  and  test  the  connection  of  the  scenes  of  an 
act,  the  one  aggregate  effect.  Let  him  exert  his 
whole  art  to  avoid  the  change  of  scenery  within 
acts,  and  fully,  when  by  such  a  change  the  act  will 
be  twice  broken.  At  the  first  glance,  the  probable 
seems  impossible  to  him,  but  it  must  be  possible. 

And  if  he  considers  the  acts  concluded,  their 
combination  of  scenes  satisfactory,  then  let  him 
compare  the  climax  of  effects  in  the  single  acts, 
and  see  that  the  power  of  the  second  part  corre- 
sponds also  to  the  first.  Let  him  raise  the  climax 
by  an  effort  of  his  best  poetic  power,  and  let  him 


360      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

have  a  sharp  eye  upon  the  act  of  the  return.  For 
if  the  hearers  should  not  be  satisfied  with  the  catas- 
trophe, the  fault  lies  frequently  in  the  previous 
act. 

The  time  within  which  the  action  must  complete 
itself  will  be  determined  for  the  modern  poet  by 
the  custom  of  his  contemporaries.  We  read  with 
astonishment  of  the  capacity  of  the  Athenians  to 
endure  for  almost  an  entire  day,  the  greatest  and 
most  thrilling  tragic  effects.  Even  Shakespeare's 
pieces  are  not  much  longer  than  our  audience  might 
be  accustomed  to,  were  they  given  unabridged,  in 
a  small  auditorium  where  more  rapid  speaking  is 
possible;  they  would  not  require,  on  the  average, 
more  than  four  hours.  The  German  unwillingly 
tolerates  now  in  a  closed  theater,  a  play  which 
takes  much  longer  than  three  hours.  This  is  a 
circumstance  in  no  way  to  be  disregarded ;  for  in 
the  time  which  extends  beyond  this,  however 
exciting  the  action  may  be,  there  are  disturbances 
by  the  withdrawal  of  single  spectators  ;  and  it  is  not 
possible  to  hinder  the  restlessness  of  the  remain- 
ing ones.  But  such  a  limitation  is  for  this  reason 
a  disadvantage,  that  in  view  of  a  great  subject  and 
great  elaboration,  three  hours  is  a  very  short  time; 
especially  on  our  stage,  where  from  the  time  of  a 
five-act  play,  during  the  four  intervals  between  acts, 
fully  a  half  hour  is  lost.  Of  all  the  German  poets, 
it  wras  notoriously  most  difficult  for  Schiller  to  com- 
plete his  play  within  the  stage  time ;  and  although 
his  verses  flow  rapidly,  his  plays,  unabridged,  would 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  361 

take  more  time  on  the  whole  than  the  audience 
would  be  willing  to  give. 

A  five  act  play,  which  after  its  arrangement  for 
the  stage  contains  an  average  of  five  hundred 
lines  to  the  act,  exceeds  the  allotted  time.  As  a 
rule,  not  more  than  two  thousand  lines  should  be 
considered  the  regular  length  of  a  stage  piece,  a 
limit  which  is  conditioned  by  the  character  of  the 
piece,  the  average  rate  of  utterance,  compactness, 
or  lighter  flow  of  the  verse ;  also  through  this, 
whether  the  action  of  the  piece  itself  demands 
many  divisions,  pauses,  movements  of  masses,  pan- 
tomimic activity ;  lastly,  through  the  stage  upon 
which  it  is  played ;  for  the  size  and  acoustics  of  the 
house  and  habits  of  the  place  exercise  an  essential 
influence. 

Of  course,  most  of  the  stage  pieces  of  our  great 
poets  are  considerably  longer  j^but  the  poet  would 
now  vainly  appeal  to  their  example.  For  their 
works  all  hail  from  a  time  in  which  the  present 
stage  usage  was  not  yet  adopted,  or  was  less  com- 
pulsory. And  finally,  in  our  time,  patrons  take  the 
liberty  of  old  friends,  to  chose  the  time  of  their 
departure,  with  no  respect  to  the  convenience  of 
others.  He  who  would  now  be  at  home  on  the 
stage,  must  submit  to  a  usage  which  cannot  at  once 
be  changed.  The  poet  will  then  estimate  his  piece 
according  to  the  number  of  verses ;  and  if  this,  as 
may  be  feared,  extends  beyond  the  stage  time,  he 
must  once  more  examine  it  with  reference  to  what 
may  be  omitted. 


362      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

When  he  has  ended  this  severe  labor  of  self-crit- 
icism, improving  his  piece  as  much  as  possible, 
then  he  may  begin  to  think  of  preparing  it  for  the 
public  eye.  For  this  work,  an  experienced  theater 
friend  is  indispensable.  The  poet  will  seek  such  a 
one  in  the  director  or  manager  of  a  great  stage. 
To  him  he  will  send  his  work  in  manuscript.  Now 
begins  a  new  examination,  discussion,  abridgement, 
till  the  wording  is  satisfactory  for  the  presentation 
on  the  stage.  If  the  poet  has  accepted  the  changes 
necessary  to  make  his  piece  conform  to  its  purpose, 
it  is  usually  put  at  an  early  date  on  the  boards,  in 
the  theater  in  connection  with  which  he  has  confi- 
dently ventured  his  fortune.  If  it  is  possible  for 
him  to  witness  this  performance,  it  will  be  very  ad- 
vantageous to  him,  not  so  much,  however,  be- 
cause he  at  once  perceives  the  disadvantages  and 
defects  of  his  work  (for  to  young  poets,  self-knowl- 
edge comes  seldom  so  quickly),  as  because,  to  the 
experienced  director  of  a  stage,  many  weaknesses 
and  redundancies  of  a  piece  first  become  apparent 
on  its  being  performed. 

It  is  true  that  a  poet's  first  connection  with  the 
stage  is  not  free  from  discomfort.  His  anxiety  about 
the  reception  of  the  piece  creeps  close  about  his 
brave  heart.  The  abbreviated  parts  always  cause 
pain  ;  and  the  striding  on  the  half-dark  stage  be- 
comes painful  on  account  of  the  secret  uncertainty, 
and  his  consideration  of  the  imperfect  rendering  of  the 
actor.  But  this  connection  has  also  something  that  is 
refreshing  and  instructive  :  the  trials,  the  appre- 


THE   POET  AND   HIS  WORK.  363 

hension  of  the  real  stage  pictures,  the  acquaintance 
with  the  customs  and  arrangements  of  the  theater. 
And  with  a  tolerable  success  of  the  play,  the 
remembrance  of  the  occasion  remains,  perhaps,  a 
worthy  possession  of  the  poet  in  his  later  life. 

Here  a  warning.  The  young  poet  is  to  take  part  for 
a  few  times  in  the  rehearsal  and  in  the  presentation. 
He  is  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  the  details 
of  the  arrangement,  the  control  of  the  entire  com- 
bination, the  wishes  of  the  actors.  But  he  is 
not  to  make  a  hobby  of  his  pieces.  He  is  not  to 
persist  in  these  too  warmly  ;  he  is  not  to  seek  the 
applause  of  new  men  too  zealously.  And,  further, 
he  is  not  to  play  the  director,  and  is  to  mingle  in 
the  rehearsal  only  where  it  is  positively  urged.  He 
is  no  actor,  and  he  may  scarcely,  in  the  rush  of 
rehearsal,  correct  what  an  actor  is  failing  in.  Let 
him  notice  what  strikes  him  ;  and  let  him  discuss 
this  later  with  the  actor.  The  place  of  the  poet  is 
in  the  test  of  reading.  Let  him  so  arrange  his 
work  that  if  he  has  voice  and  practice,  he  himself 
may  first  read  it  aloud,  and  in  a  second  rehearsal  hear 
the  actors  read  their  roles.  The  good  influence 
which  he  may  exercise,  will  be  best  assured  in  this 
way. 

The  great  independence  of  different  provinces 
has  hindered  in  Germany  the  success  of  a  piece  on 
the  stage  in  a  capital  city,  from  being  a  criterion  of 
its  success  on  the  other  stages  of  the  country.  A 
German  play  must  have  the  good  fortune  of  meet- 
ing success  in  eight  or  ten  of  the  great  theaters  in 


364      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

different  parts  of  Germany,  before  its  course  upon 
the  rest  may  be  assured.  While  the  reputation  of  a 
piece  which  comes  from  the  stronghold  of  Vienna 
determines,  to  a  certain  degree,  its  fate  at  the  other 
theaters  of  the  empire,  the  Berlin  court  theater  has  a 
still  smaller  circle  in  which  it  gives  prestige.  What 
pleases  in  Dresden  displeases  perhaps  in  Leipsic, 
and  a  success  in  Hanover  insures  no  success  in 
Brunswick.  Meantime,  the  connection  of  the  Ger- 
man theaters  reaches  so  far,  that  the  success  of  a 
piece  on  one  or  two  respectable  stages  calls  the 
attention  of  the  others  to  it.  Lack  of  attention  to 
what  is  available  everywhere  is,  in  general,  not  the 
greatest  reproach  which  at  present  can  be  cast  upon 
the  German  stage. 

If  a-  piece  stood  the  test  of  a  first  appearance, 
there  were  formerly  two  ways  of  making  its  use 
more  extensive.  The  first  was  to  print  the  pi'ece 
and  send  copies  to  different  theaters  ;  the  other  was 
to  commit  the  manuscript  to  an  agent  to  be  pushed. 

Now,  the  Society  of  Dramatic  Authors  and  Com- 
position at  Leipsic,  by  its  director,  represents  the 
rights  and  interests  of  its  members  among  the  differ- 
ent theaters  ;  it  takes  charge  of  the  business  of  getting 
a  piece  on  the  stage,  supervises  its  appearance  on 
the  boards,  attends  to  the  collection  of  the  compen- 
sation (Jwnoraria}  and  percentages.  Whoever  has 
to  do  with  theaters,  as  a  young  writer,  cannot  now 
dispense  with  the  support  of  this  society ;  and  it  is 
to  his  interest  to  become  a  member. 

But    besides    this,   it   is   desirable    for  a   young 


THE  POET  AND  HIS  WORK.  365 

author  to  come  into  close  relations  with  the  theaters 
themselves,  their  distinguished  managers,  leaders, 
and  professors.  In  this  way  he  becomes  acquainted 
with  theatrical  life,  its  demands  and  its  needs. 
Therefore,  with  his  first  piece  let  him  take  a  mid- 
dle course.  If  his  manuscript  is  printed  (let  him 
not  use  too  small  type  and  make  the  prompter 
weep  over  it),  let  him  give  it  for  the  majority  of 
theaters  to  the  director  of  the  Society ;  let  him 
reserve  to  himself,  however,  the  transmission  to  and 
intercourse  with  some  theaters  from  which  he  can 
expect  particular  demands.  Besides,  it  is  desirable 
to  send  copies  of  his  work  to  individual  prominent 
actors  at  famous  theaters.  He  needs  the  warm  de- 
votion and  generous  sympathy  of  the  actors  ;  it  will 
be  friendly,  too,  for  him  to  facilitate  the  study  of 
their  roles.  A  connection  thus  begun  with  the 
highly  esteemed  talent  of  the  stage  will  not  only  be 
useful  to  the  author ;  it  can  win  to  him  men  of 
prominence,  ardent  admirers  of  the  beautiful,  per- 
haps helpful  and  faithful  friends.  To  the  German 
poet  there  is  greater  need  of  fresh  suggestions, 
stimulating  intercourse  with  cultivated  actors,  than 
any  thing  else  ;  for,  in  this  way  he  attains  most  easily 
what  too  generally  is  lacking,  an  accurate  knowledge 
of  what  is  effective  on  the  stage.  Even  Lessing 
learned  this  by  experience. 

If  the  poet  has  done  all  this,  on  the  reasonable 
success  of  his  piece,  he  will  soon,  through  a  some- 
what extensive  correspondence,  be  initiated  into  the 
secrets  of  stage  life. 


366      FREYTAG'S  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

And  finally,  when  the  young  dramatist  has  in 
this  way  sent  the  child  of  his  dreams  out  into  the 
world,  he  will  have  sufficient  opportunity  to  develop 
within  himself  something  besides  knowledge  of  the 
stage.  It  will  be  his  duty  to  endure  brilliant  suc- 
cesses without  haughtiness  and  conceit,  and  to 
accept  sorrowful  defeats  without  losing  courage. 
He  will  have  plenty  of  occasion  to  test  and  fashion 
his  self-consciousness ;  and  in  the  airy  realm  of  the 
stage,  in  face  of  the  actors,  the  authors  of  the  day, 
and  the  spectators,  to  make  something  of  himself 
worth  more  than  being  a  technically  educated  poet 
—  a  steadfast  man,  who  not  only  perceives  the 
beautiful  in  his  dreams,  but  who  shall  be  honestly 
determined  unceasingly  to  represent  it  in  his  own 
life. 


INDEX. 


Abasement  of  hero 71 

Accessories,  essential 71 

Accessory  figures n,  32,  44 

Achilles 62,179,  283 

Accidents 311,  314 

Acropolis.- 148 

Act  defined 192 

divisions  of 210 

of  ascent 198 

of  catastrophe -  201 

of  climax 199 

of  introduction 196 

of  return 201 

Acting,  Greek 149,  152 

Action 9,  19,  22,  27,  36 

about  one  person 305 

beginning  of 29 

characters  in — 266,  272, 

275,  276,  278 

chief  thing 89 

double - --     44 

importance  of 61 

influence  of  character--     42 

length  of 360,  361 

magnitude  of 61 

movement  in 66 

probability  of 49 

progress  of 29 

qualities  of -     27 

rising 66 

reflex -     74 


subordinate 44 

time  of 360 

construction  of 196 

Acts,    five 192,210 

Actor  and  poet- --300,  317, 

319.  32i 

and  verse 331 

Actors,  number- -145,  148 

personality 149,  257 

special  roles 330 

three 162 

Adapting  to  stage 356,  358 

jCgisthos  --- -76,  174 

^schylus.-25,  42,   75,  77, 
H2,  115,  141,  143,  146, 

148,  157,  162,  173 

Agamemnon 77 

Furies 160 

Libation  Pourers 1 73 

Persians 141 

Suppliants 42,  141 

After-creation 246 

Agamemnon- -.42,  62,  177,  283 

Aggregate  effect --     94 

Ajax-SJ,  107,  112,  153,  154, 

156,  158,  161,  162,  176,  177 
Ajax--42,45,  153,  161,  162, 

164,  176 

Alba 225 

Alcestis 112 

Alexandrine -326,  329 

Alphonso 197,  201 


367 


368 


INDEX. 


Andromache -   112 

Anne -. 256 

Antigone,  107, 137, 153, 154, 

155,  158,  170,  311 
plot  of 170 

Antigone,  42,  75,  137,  152, 

153.  154,  155.  158,  164, 

170,  171,  175,  314 

Antonio 197,  199,  200,  201 

Antony  and  Cleopatra, 

41,  71,  186,  245,  306 
Antony  . .    71,  72,  95,  100, 

132,  256,  306 

Apollo 173 

Aphrodite 116 

Aristotle,  5, 6,  26,  36  ,86, 88, 

89,  93,  98,  100,  103,  308 

Poetics  of 6,  101,  247 

Appiani 198 

Arrangement  of  parts 210 

Art  and  nature 299,  300 

Artist  as  hero 68 

Ase-god 292 

Athene 57,  161,  162 

Athenian 341 

play,  length  of 146 

poets 141 

stage 36,69,  101,  112,  140 

tragedy 141,  171 

Athenians — 6,  7.  153,  158, 

160,  163,  164,  202,  360 

Attic  criticism 3,  158 

market .--   144 

orations 148 

poet—  -.91,  157 

stage,  112,  143,  147,  151, 

152,  154,  181 

tragedy 282 

Audience  and  poet 354 

Auditor 50,  51 


Auerbach 241 

Aufidius--76,  131,  136,  184, 

187,  258 
Augustus  Caesar.. _  216 


Banquo _ --5Q,  186 

Baumgarten 123,  197 

Beaumarchais 120,  122 

Benvolio 126 

Berlin .- 364 

Bertha 200 

Black  Knight 60 

Blasius  von  Boiler 10 

Bohemia 50 

Bohemian  cup 221,  237 

Bride  of  Messina 228,  242 

Brunhild  --- 285 

Brutus,  82,  95,  1 18, 121,  123, 
124,  132,  135,  136,  186, 

229,  254,  255,  256,  316 

Burleigh- 212,  213 

Burlesque  play 146 

Burnam  Wood 136 

Buttler -.78,  204,207, 

237.  3i6 
C 

Czesar    Julius    59,    77,  95, 
loo,  121,  123,  135,  224, 

254,  255  265,  337 

Caesura 325,326,  327 

Calderon 341 

Camp 209 

Canossa 39,  293, 

294,  295 
Capulets.--32, 34,  122,  123, 

126,  182 

Casca 256 

Cassandra 77 


INDEX. 


369 


Cassius.-iig,  121,  124,  186, 

224,  254,  256 

Catastrophe 35,  114 

act  of 201 

defined -   137 

difficulties  in -   138 

double 206 

in  Antigone-- 171 

law  of 139 

Sophocles  --- 169 

Cause  and  effect--- 311 

Chance  -- -- 35 

Character  of  poet 134,  366 

Characterization — 

methods  of 250,  251 

German 250,  251 

Romances -250,  251 

in  different  poets     ..   ..  252 

Shakespeare's 258 

Characters 21,  246 

action  influenced  by  42, 

266,  272,  275,  276,  278 

chief--- 249 

prominence  of 23,  231 

defining 247 

dramatic  life  of  -._     22 

female 262 

humorous 310 

in  /Eschylus 162 

in  Euripides 252 

in  Goethe 262 

in  Hamlet 190,  192,  193 

\nlliad -  290 

in  Lessing 259 

in  Nibelimgen -  290 

in  Odyssey 290 

in  Shakespeare  - 253 

in  Schiller 264 

in  Sophocles 165 

impelling  force  of 258 


last  century 262 

laws  concerning 303,  314 

material  and--- 266 

minor  changes  in 332 

motive  not  marvelous-  307 
must  be  good  and  evil  308 
must  show  one  side--  303 
must  guide  action  310,  314 

must  be  true 274 

onstage 262,  297 

personality  ot 310 

subordinate 256,  259 

unity  of 304 

weakness  of 65 

with  portraiture 273 

Charlemagne 50 

Charles  V 267,  268 

Chief  effect 71 

hero  conquered 106,  107 

reaction  on 106,  306 

triumphant 106 

Christian 343 

Christianity 293,  294 

Chorus - -140,  142 

Chrysomethis 48,173,  174 

Clara 139 

Claudia    199 

Clavigo,---^  49,  107,  119, 

1 2O,  122,  130,  223 

Clavigo     120,  130,  262,  314 

Cleopatra 71,  72,  239 

Climax 105,  114,  130,  131 

actof - 199 

defined... 128 

scene 199 

Sophocles 161 

Clytemnestra,.--42,  62,  77, 

152,  1 66,  173,283 

Closed  stage igc 

Colloquy  scenes 145 


370 


INDEX. 


Color — 

a  creation 340 

and  language 339 

and  verse 323 

in  poet's  soul 336 

Comparisons 298 

Complication 121 

Concert  speech 243 

Conradin 97 

Construction  of  drama 104 

of  scenes 210 

in  Sophocles 140 

Contest  on  Attic  stage- 143,  147 

Conti 120 

Contrast — 

in  character 163,  164  171 

in  scenes 81 

necessary 44,  223 

Sophocles 161 

Cordelia 135,  257,  310,  314 

Coriolanus 27,  131,  187,  258 

Coriolanus 76,  131,  135, 

136,  187,  246,  258 

Costume,  changes  of 214 

Greek 147 

historical 337 

Counterplay -.45,  104,  122, 

-  128,  130,  185,  186 

in  introduction 120,  220 

Counterplayers — 125,  162, 

1 80,  200,  235,  253,  272 

Craftsman's  rules 3 

Creation  and  after-creation  249 
Creon45,  137,  152, 158,  165, 

170,  171,  172,  211,  314 

Crises  three 114 

Cromwell ._  96 

Curtain,  effects  of 193,  215 

Custom,  national 69 

Cutting  out--- 356,  357 


Daja 118 

Danger  in  hero's  leading . .  109 

Davison 213 

Deed  concealed 77 

Deianeira 101,  153, 

166,  176 

Delivery,  methods  of 336 

Demetrius 238,  239,  263 

Desdemona 121 

Deveroux , 316 

Devil 55,    57 

Dialogue  scenes- .170,  221, 

223,  225 

Dionysus 94 

Dionysian  festivals  --.141,  147 

Director's  help 362,  365 

Director  Scenes 212 

Distributed  voices 244 

Don  Carlos- -ioi,  223,  306,  348 
Drama  — 

acts  in — 195 

Attic  18,  45, 112,  143,  147, 

306,  334,  343 

beginning  of 25 

construction  of io4 

double 206 

five  parts  of 114 

Germanic-- 181,  184,  193,  334 

in  two  halves 105 

modern 195 

music  and 88 

reading - 344 

three  crises  in... -  114 

Dramatic — 

action 9 

art--- - 19 

characters 246 

characterization.-. 249 

composition 344 


INDEX. 


37i 


effects 

sociable - 

expression 

forces  or  moments.  -  - 18, 

"5, 

recitation - 

unity 

verse 

what  is 

Dramatis  persona 

Dramatist  and  spectator.  - 

Double  action .- 

danger  in 

Double  drama 

Double  tragedy 

Dumas 

Duncan 77, 


21 

52 
19 

211 

330 

43 

330 

'9 

21 

52 

44 
46 

206 

202 
341 


Edgar 

Edipus,  see  CEdipus 

Edmund 135,  136, 

Effect  and  cause.- -- 

Effects,  great  only .- 

heightened 79, 

in  supreme  moment 

of  old  drama -. 

on  Attic  stage 

opera-like 

Eger 

Egmont  -.41,  139,  240,  308, 
3 '6, 

Egnaont 

Egyptians 

Electro. 48,  76,  152, 

Electra 76,  77,  164,  167, 

174,  176, 

Elizabeth 55,  in,  132, 

199,  202,  212, 


129 

3" 

3" 

134 

'53 

76 

90 

151 

283 

204 
324 


Emilia  Galotti 49,  109, 

1 20,  122,  130,  197,  198, 

199,  201,  259,  307 
Emilia  Galotti  ..-.76,  120, 

130,  197,  198,  199,  207 

Enobarbus ---  236 

Epic -. 18 

heroes 278-282 

material 278,  279 

narrative 36 

tradition --279,  284 

Episodes ---47,  134 

in  Goethe 49 

in  Less! ng 48 

in  Shakespeare 48 

in  Schiller 49 

in  Sophocles 48 

Eschylus,  see  ^Eschylus.. 
Euripides,  25, 26, 42,  43,  62, 
89,  112,  115,  142,   143, 
157,  158,   166,  173,  282, 

284,  296 

Alcestis 112 

Andromache 113 

Hecuba 26,  116 

Helena 112 

Hippolytus 116,  157 

Jphigenia  in  Aulis--62.,  283 

Medea 157 

Eurydice 171 

Events  behind  scenes  ~.  .-     73 

onstage -  --74,75 

Exciting  force  or  moment 


225  52,    114,  115,  121,  123, 

54  127,  172-5,  197 

172        convenient  arrangement  125 

diverse  forms 123 

283       double 205,206 

no  elaboration —  124 

306  !  Exposition 21 


372 


INDEX. 


Fall  of  action 115 

False  unity —     38 

Falstaff -     46 

Faust.  57,  61,  116,  122,  189, 

241,  263 
Faust — 122,  165,  227,241,  263 

Ferdinand loo,  in,  127 

Field  of  poet  now 342 

Figures  of  Sophocles 166 

Final  suspense 135 

First  player- -i 49,  154,  158,  178 

Fiveacts 192,  196 

Force— 

final  suspense 135,  137 

irrational 98 

tragic 95 

Formula 12,  13 

Francis 267 

Franconian 275 

Frederick  the  Great 273 

French 28,  196,326,  329 

Friedland 204 


-198,  307 


Galotti 

German — 
actor 317 

hero--   1 10,  255,  290,  291 

life 254 

method 265 

poets-- no,  200,  226,  259, 
281,  328,  342,  343,  350, 

353.  356,  365 
stage  ..in,  1 16,  263, 285, 

3o8,  337,  363,  364 
Germanic  drama-7, 81, 155, 

1 8 1,  184,  193,  254,  334 

Germans 24,  25,  28,  41, 

42,43.45.  48,  54,57,75, 


77,  80,  84, 1 10,  114,  120, 

127,  128,    195,    199,   200, 

223,  226,  246,  247,  265, 
279, 284,  285,  289,  293, 

308,  360 

Germany- .96,  98,  245,  253, 

325,  341,  363 
Ghost 186 

Gloucester 45 

Goethe. -i,  2,  8,  43,  49,  61, 
153,  227,  228,  240,  259, 
262,  263,  278,  306,  329, 

343,  359 
Clavigo-.^,  49,  107,  119, 

122,  130,  233 
Egmont-$\,  139,  240,308, 

316,  324 
Faust — 57,  61,  116,  122, 

189,  246,  263 

Goetz  von  B 40,  240,  308 

Iphigenia 43,49,  120 

Natural  Daughter 324 

Tasso 43,  49,  112,  118, 

197,  198,  199,  201 
Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  40, 

240,  314 
Great  poets  compared,  no,  222 

Great  strokes 134 

Greeks- --28,  42,  43,  45,  47, 
54,70,74,75.81,86,88, 
90,  91,  92,  94,  98,  101, 
102,  103,  113,  137,  144, 
J49.  153.  158,  246,  279, 

281,  284,  289,  325,  335 

Greek  acting -149,  152 

actors 75 

drama-.-3,  7,  18,  45,306, 

334,  343 
costume 75 

heroes- 102,  158,  290,  291,  316 


INDEX. 


373 


subjects 143 

tragedy 100,  140,  222, 

282,  335,  336 
development- 141,  142,  143 

Gretchen 122,  123,226, 

227,  262,  278 

Ground  mood 80 

Gustavus  Adolphus 268 

H 

Hades - -  153 

Haemon--45,  152,  158,  170,  171 
Halle  --  -  269 

Hamburgische  Dramatur- 

gie  -  6 

Hamlet '-.118,  119,  186,  188, 

190,  191,  192,  258 

analysis  of 190,  191, 

192,  193 

Hamlet 48,  59, 123,  124, 

136, 165, 180,  186, 190-3, 
218,  219,  220,  253,  314, 
273,  287,  288,  289,  293, 

295,  347 

Hapsburg -       -  347 

Hebrews 54 

Hecuba - ...26,  116 

Helena --   112 

Hellenes 24,  192,  342 

Henry  IV  — -     45 

Henry  IV - 39,  293-5 

Henry  V 26 

Henry  VI 27 

Henry  VIII 273 

Hercules 154,  176,  179,  181 

Hero  abasement  of 71 

and  audience 308 

and  color.-- 33^ 

character  - 62 

chief 3°° 


classes  unavailable  for- 

64,  65 

double-- 128,305,  306 

end  of 128 

German  and  Greek 290 

Greek 102,  158,  248 

historical 273,  287-9, 

293-5.  347 
single  -.  -  304 

talked  about-- 317 

Heroic  accounts 71 

Hesse - --  267 

Hexameter ---326,  327,  342 

Hindoos 54 

Heightened  effects 79 

Hippolytus 116,  157 

Historic  idea 37 

Historian  and  poet  -16,39, 

67,  266,  274,  349 
Historical  material- 15,  37, 

41,  296,  336,  346,  347 

heroes  in 273,347,  364 

Hohenstaufen 275,  337,  347 

Hohenzollern 70 

HolyOne-- 292 

Homer 284 

Hovel  scene 188 

Hroswith -  344 

Humor -   129 

basis  of 3'° 

in  chief  character...      -  310 
Hyllos 101,  176 


lago 83,  121,253,  368 

Iambic  hexameter 326,  327 

Iambic  pentameter      -324, 

328,  329 
in  German  and  English  325 


374 


INDEX. 


Iambus— 

in  Goethe 329 

in  Lessing 330 

in  Schiller 329 

Idea  of  drama -.9,  n 

I  d  ea  of  \Vallenstein 205 

Ideal  figures 340 

Idealization  of  history.  .40, 

267,  296,  308 

Inland in 

Iliad 290 

Immermann 325 

Inheritance  of  poet 341 

Intensification  of  soul 24 

Introduction- -1 14, 115, 118, 

123,  196 

structure  of 120 

Invention n 

Inventor  as  hero 68 

Involution -  121 

Ion 112 

Ion 103 

Iphigenia 43,  49,  120 

Iphigenia 45,  49,^50,  62, 

103,  283 

Iphigenia  in  Aulis 62,  283 

Iphigenia  in  Tauris 112 

Irrational  forces 08 

Ismene 45,48,165,  170 

J 

Japanese 54 

Jews 343 

Jocasta 101,  153,  172 

Juliet-34,  35.36»95.99.  I0°. 

122,  126,   127,    135,    183, 

187,306,  3".  3*4 
Julius  Casar — 27,  80,82, 
119,  120,  121,  126,  132, 

153,  1 86,  244,  256 


Julius  Caesar 59,  77,  95, 

ico,  121,  123,  135,  224, 

253,  254,  255,  265,  337 
Justice  on  either  side 105 

K 
Kolb —  127 

Katchen  of  Heilbronn 116 

Keeping  things  silent 78 

Kennedy 118   119,  167 

Keynote  119 

Kleist -  280 

Kriemhild 280 

Kritz 10 


Lady  Macbeth -- 135,  188 

Laertes ..   136 

Laius 51,  171,  172 

Language  and  color 339 

and  poet  -- 338 

Last  suspense 115 

Latins 24,  114,250,  279 

Laws,  minor  of  characters  303 
Lear.. 27,  45,  129,  135,  136, 

186,  187,  188,  258,  311 

Leicester 199,  202,  212 

Length  of  play 360,  361 

Leipsic  364 

Leonora 109,  200,  201 

Lessing-2,  6,  8,  43,  48,  84, 
193,  198,  200,  20 1,  223, 
259,  260,  262,  306,  307, 

317,  365 

Emilia  Calotti —49,  107, 
1 20,  122,  130,  198,  200, 
201,  223,  254,  260,  262, 

3°6.  307.  317,  365 
Hamburgische   Drama- 
turgic        6 


INDEX. 


375 


Minna    Von   Barnhelm 

49.  261 

Nathan  The  Wise---\<), 

118,  261 

Sara  Sampson .  1 20,  260,  261 

Lepidus 236 

Libation  Pourers 173 

Lichas 154 

Limits  of  poet -     51 

Laurence    33,  34,  35,  126, 

127,  136,  3'3 

Louise 10,  loo,  no,  128 

Love  and  Intrigue.  - 1 3,  28, 

43,  76, 100, 107, 127, 264,  305 
Love  scenes- 226,  228,  229, 

278,  288,  298 

Lucius 82 

Luther... .96,273,  348 

M 

Macbeth  .27,  60,  77,  83, 118, 

119,  1 86,  258,  276 
Macbeth -59,  123,  127,  136, 

158, 1 86,  244 

Macbeth,  Lady 135,  188 

Macdonald 216 

Macduff 188,  244 

Maid  of  Orleans  -  -  -49,  60, 

107,  116,  241,  265 

Manager's  help 365 

Manuel 265 

Margaret  _  229 

Maria  Theresa 348 

Marie - 130 

Marinelli-izo,  197, 198,  199,  201 

Martha 227 

Marvelous 53 

Mary 120,  132,  197,  199, 

200,  202,  306 


Mary  Stuart. . .  13,  99,  in, 
118,  119,  120,  122,  124, 
125,  132,  197,  199,  200, 

201,  202,  207,  208,   212,  348 

Mary  Stuart 95,  119 

Material 14 

from  epic 43 

historical 15,  296,344-49 

modern 157 

novel 43 

old  344 

onesidedness  in 44 

Max 204,  205,  206,  207, 

235.  237,  265,  271,  272,  306 

Medea 157 

Melfort .260,  262 

Melchthal 198,  338 

Menas 236 

Menelaus ---62,  161,  177 

Merchant  of  Venice 83 

Mercutio 32  33,48,96,  126 

Mephistopheles-57,  58, 122,  227 

Merovingians 286 

Messenger  scenes- 72  116, 

145,  170,  220 
Middle  ages-285,  286,  292, 

293,  295,  343 

Middle  class  life-- -  113 

Milford 47,  128 

Minna  von  Barnhelm..^,  261 

Minna 259 

Minor  rules 303 

Modern  theater 342 

Moliere 250 

Moments  or  forces 196 

Moment  of  last  suspense-  115 

Monologue... 219,  220 

Moods  unexpressed -     70 

Moor 121 

Moritz 267 


376 


INDEX. 


Mortimer 122,  123,  197, 

199,  200,  212 

Motive,  broad 82,  no,  123 

repeated 29,  42 

Movement  of  action .     66 

Murder  scenes... —  132 

Mysteries  on  stage -     58 

N 

Narrative  remodeled 30 

Nathan  The  Wise .49,  118,  260 

Nathan 118 

National  custom 69 

Nature  and  art 299,  300 

Natural  Daughter 324 

Neoptolemus-ioi,  158,  177, 

178,  179,  180 

Nessos 101 

New  persons 187 

New  roles 200 

Nibelungen  -  279,  284,  290,  327 
Number  of  persons 216 


Octavianus 71 

Octavio--204,  206,237,  238,  271 

Odoardo 201,  307 

Odysseus-42,  103,  161,  162, 

165,  177,  178,  179,  180, 

181,  280 

Odyssey  281,  290 

CEdipits  at  Colonos-  -  7,  48, 

51,   H2,  150,   156,   160, 

167,  174 
CEdipus,  King...\<yj,  155, 

i?l,  178 
CEdipus 7, 167, 168,  171, 

172,  175 
Old  Fritz. 348 


Old-material 350,  351 

One  hero 304 

Opening  scene 117 

Opera  like  effects 283 

Ophelia 189 

Opposing  characters 107 

Orange -  225 

Oration  scenes 132 

Orestes 42,  76,  152,  165, 

173.  '74 
Orsina 49,  201 

Othello,  14,  27,  83,  100,  107, 

121,  122,  123,  130,  258 

Othello --45,  130,310,  314 

Otto-- 285,  337 


Parallelisms  in  verse 332 

in  scenes 82 

in  German  and  Greek--  334 
Paris    34,  35, 36,  76,  99,122,  135 

Parody,  Greek 92 

Parricida 49,  81,  202 

Parts  of  drama 114 

summary  of 140 

women's 184 

arrangements 210 

Pathos  scenes,  132, 142, 145, 

170,  174,  177,  178 

Paulet 118 

Pauses 214 

Penelope 280 

People  and  poets -  246 

Percy 76 

Peripeteia .   101 

Persians 141 

Personality  of  poet 17 

Personification 248 

Persons  in  Greek  drama  -  -     42 
Phillip. 348 


INDEX. 


377 


Philoctetes.--\Q\,  1 12,  138, 

153.  '74,  178 
Philoctetes.--i6|,  165,  167, 

178,  179,  180 
Piccolomini-.\\%>,  202,  205, 

206,  207,  236,  305 

Piccolomini 237,  238,  270 

Pilsen 203 

Play  and  counter  play 1 14 

order  of  parts —   169 

Shakespeare's 182 

Sophocles' and  Teutonic  155 

spectacle in 

symmetry  of 182 

time  of  acting- .  167,  360,  361 
Player,  first- -i 49,  154,  158,  178 

second 150,  154,158,  178 

third -,-150,  154,  1 80,  228,  229 
Players,  number  limited--  234 
of  Shakespeare's  time  -   182 
Players  and  poets -300,  317, 

3'9.  321,  355 

Plot  of  Ajax -   176 

Antigone 170 

Electro. 172 

CE ili pus  King 171 

(Edipus  at  Colonos 174 

Philoctetes .-   177 

Trachinian   Women 176 

and  poet 351 

Poet  as  actor  and  director  342 

and  audience 354 

books 351 

character 86,  134 

field 342 

hero.-  --35°.  351 

historian -.67,  266,  274,  347 

limit 51 

material 346,  347 

people 246 


plan 351 

resources 340 

stage  --        --343,  362,  363 

task _ 31 

tragedy 86 

work  ..         —341,344,  354 

Poetic  energy 253 

truth _ 50 

Poetics,  Aristotle's  —  5,  6,  101 

Poetics,  Greek 247 

Political  history —     66 

Polydorus 116 

Polymnestor - 26 

Polynices 170,  175 

Pompey 235,  236 

Posa 306 

Premises,     monstrous    of 

Sophocles 309 

Presuppositions 117 

in  Sophocles- -.155,  168,  309 

in  Teutonic  drama 159 

Prince  of  Hamburg,  38,  70, 

112,  139,  324 

Probability  of  action .     49 

Prolixity -_  359 

Prologue - 115,  168 

Prometheus 57,  166 

Properties 338 

Prose  and  drama 323,  328 

Protagonist 154 

Public,  influence  of 309 

Purification --87,    93 

Pylades 76 

Pyramidal   structure,    114, 

153,  218,  225 


Qualities  of  action 27 

Queen  Mab 48 

Questenberg,  118,  203,  207,  269 


378 


INDEX. 


Raumer...    275 

Reaction,  beginning  of.--     99 
Reaction  in  poet's  mind--  354 

Reading  drama 344 

Recognition  scenes — 101, 

145,  169 

Recha 259 

Reflex  action 74 

Reformation 288 

Relief  before  catastrophe.  136 

Religious  changes... 292 

Repetition  of  motive 82 

Return  action 115,  133, 

166,  177,  186,  187,  188,  200 

Revolution 101,145,  169 

Riccault 49 

Richard  III. ...  27,  41,  1 1 8, 
121,  122,  1 86,  229,  244, 

256,  276 

Richard  III 59,  83,  136, 

148,  186,  253,  304,  308,  316 

Richmond —     37 

Rise  of  action 69,  115 

scenes  of.- 128 

Rising  movement- 125,  126 

rules  for 125 

Roderigo 83,  121 

Roles,  celebrated 223 

chief 306 

collective 162,  341 

distribution  of- -149,  156,  162 

great,  limited 304 

kinds  of 143 

length  of --   148 

not  interchangeable 320 

number  of 133 

of  Euripides 283 

of  second  half  of  play--  316 
subordinate ---  256 


Romans 24,  28,  95,  279, 

289,  290,  308 

Roman  stage 195,  343 

Romeo  and  Juliet--?],  30, 
76,  82,  99,  1 1 8,  122, 123, 

124,  187,258,305,  311 
Romeo- -.32,  33,  34,  36,  95, 
100,  123,  124,  127,  135, 
136,  165,  182,  183,  187, 

226,  306,  311,  316 

Romulus 338 

Rosalind 32 

Rudenz 200,  306 

Rules,  craftsmen's 3 

minor 303 

Riitli 108,  199 


Sapieha -- 240 

Sara  Sampson — 120,260,  261 

Sara 259,  260 

Saxon 347 

Scenes 210,  211 

balcony 227 

changed  relation 224 

devices  for 241 

dialogue 221,223,  225 

director 212 

double 212 

ensemble 229-245 

battle 244 

camp 244 

devices 241 

difficulties  --.232,233,  241 

galley- 235 

mass 242 

pageant - -  241 

parliament-- 239,  240 

populace- --240,  241 

rules  for 231,  232 


INDEX. 


379 


Riitli 238,  239 

signature _  237 

time  of - 234 

five  parts  of 217 

in  Mary  Stuart -  212 

jumble  in 217 

love--- 226-229,278,  298 

danger  in 228 

monologue -  219 

number  of  persons 216 

order  of  parts 213 

parallel 82 

poets' --  212 

pyramidal  form 225 

sequence  of 133,  353 

structure 210 

technique -- 223 

third  person  in 228 

Scenery 338 

shifting 215 

Scenic  contrasts 81 

Scythians 282 

Schiller-2,  4,  8,  14,  17,  40, 
43,  46,  49,  60, 6 1,  69,  78, 
81,  107,  no,  132,  195, 
208,  220,  227,  236,  240, 
242,  259,  262,  263,  265, 
268,  269,  271,  272,  298, 
306,  316,  324,  341,  348, 

354,  356,  360 

Bride  of  Messina  -  -  -  228,  242 
Demetrius-  -43,  238,  239, 

240,  263 

Don  Carlos 43,46,  348 

Love  and  Intrigue 13, 

28,   76,    I  oo,    107,    1 10, 

127,  264,  305 
Maid  of  Orleans-\c),  60, 

107,  116,  241 
Mary  Stuart..  13,  43,  46, 


loo,  in,  118,  119,  120, 
122,  124,  125,  130,  197, 
199,  200,  201,  202,  204, 

207,  208,   212,   348 

Piccolomini,  \  18, 202,  205, 

206,  207,  236,  305 

Robbers 263,  306 

7i>//-.-43,  46,  49.  81,  123, 

197,  199,  2OO,  201,  202, 

228,  238 

Wallenstcin--  .40,  43,  46, 
72,  78,  107,  116,  119, 
120,  202,  206,  207,  208, 
220,  223,  228,  308,  311,  316 

Camp 209 

Death -.206,  217 

Scribe  - —  341 

Semiramis  337 

Sequence  of  scenes 133 

Serious  drama —   in 

Sesina 206 

Shakespeare- --7,  8,  25,  27, 
29,34,40,41,43,45,46, 
48,  58,  59,  62,69,71,81, 
82,  83,  107,  no,  113, 
116,  118,  119,  120,  123, 
128,  181,  182,  183,  184, 
185,  186,  187,  189,  193, 
196,  200,  227,  228,  235, 
.  237,  241,  244,  245,  252, 
255,  256,  258,  259,  273, 
298,  306,  310,  314,  330, 

34i,  349,  354,  356,  360 
Anthony  and  Cleopatra 

41,  71,  189,  245,  306 
Coriolanus-.T.'j,  130,  131, 

135,  187,  258 

Hamlet 118,  119,  186, 

188,  190,  191,  192,  193,  258 
Henry  IV. 45 


38o 


INDEX. 


Henry  V. ..- 26 

Henry  VI. 27 

Henry  VIII. 273 

Julius  C&sar-zj,  So,  82, 
119,  120,  126,  132,  186, 

244,  256 
Lear. 27,  45,  107, 129,  186, 

1 88,  258,  311 
Macbeth-  .27,  77,  83,  118, 

1 19,  186,  258,  276 

Merchant  of  Venice 83 

Othello-- -it,,  27,  83,  100, 

107,  121,  122,  123,  130,  258 
Richard  I  I  I. -27,  41,  118, 
121,  122,  1 86,  229,  244, 

256,  276 

Romeo  and  Juliet '.27, 30, 
76,  82,  99,  1 1 8,  122,  126, 

133,  187,258,305,  311 

Timon  of  A  thens -     62 

Shakespeare's 

actors 184 

audiences... 183 

ardor  for  heroes 187 

change  of  scenes 185 

characters 253 

characteristics 186 

drama 189 

heroes  and  action —  185, 

252,  258 

method 185,  189,  258 

spirits 58 

stage   -   181 

technique 184-193 

times 184-194 

Shylock 50,  253 

Society  of  Dramatic  Auth- 
ors   364 

Sophocles.  .7,  8,  25,  42,  43, 
47,  75,  81,  91,  92,  98, 


no,  M2,  115,  137,  140, 
141,  146,  147,  148,  149, 

150,  153.  155.  157,  158. 
160,  163,  166,  168,  169, 

173.  174,  176,  178,  179 
Ajax..ii2,  153,  154,  156, 

158,  161,  162,  176,  177 
Antigone-- 107,  137,  153, 

154,  155,  158,  170,  311 

Electro, 48,  76,  152,  1 72 

CEdipus  at  Colonos-     7, 

48,  112,  156,  160,  167,  174 
CEdipus,  King--\Q\,  107, 

155,  171,  178 
Philoctetes-ioi,  112,  133, 

153.  177,  178 
Trachinian  Women -\Q\, 

153,  154,  176 

episodes  in 47 

Soul  processes 39,  104 

Spanish — 29,  222 

Speech  and  reply 222,  229 

Spectacle  play in 

on  modern  stage 112 

tragedyand 113 

Spectator  and  dramatist-  -     32 

Spirits  not  dramatic 56 

in  comedy 57 

in  Shakespeare 58 

Stauffacher 197,  238,  239 

Stenzel 275 

Stimulation   97 

Structure  of  drama 104 

of  scenes 210 

Struggle,  tragic —     85 

of  Greek  hero 159 

of  Teutonic  hero 159 

Superhuman 55 

Supernatural 55 

Suppliants   -.42,  141 


INDEX. 


3*' 


Suspense  final 133 

force  of 135,  137 

Swedes 204,  206,221,  311 

Swiss 197,  198, 199,  201,  306 


Tableaux 317 

Tasso..\^,  49,  113,  118,  197, 

108,  199,  201,  359 

Tasso 197,201,202,  314 

Tecmessa .45,  162,  177 

Technique 4,      8 

not  absolute -- i 

not  enough 322 

pf  versification 329 

Tell.... 43,  49,  80,  197,  199, 

200,  201,  202,228,   238 

Tell 197,  198,  201, 

265,  306 

Tellheim 260,  262 

Templer 260 

Terzky 228,237,  273 

Testing  ..  .359 

Teucros 153,  162,  177 

Teutonic--       --91,94,226,254 

Theatre,  modern —  342 

Thebes 103,171,  175 

Thekla. -205,  206,221,228,  265 

Theseus 158,  165,  175 

Thoas .. . 50 

Time  of  action ...  360 

Ti/non  of  Athens . .   -     62 

Tiresias 152,  158,  171 

Tonecolor 328 

Trachinian    Women-    153, 

154,  176 

Tragedy 81,    87 

Athenian -   140 

double 202 

Greek 222,  282 


influence  of _.  87 

kind  of  second in 

Tragic,  what  is 7,  84 

aggregate  effect 94 

causal  connection 97 

force  or  moment -95,  m, 

"5.  '30,  13'.  132 

in  Greek  drama 100 

in  real  life 99 

narrower  sense 94 

place  of —   ico 

scene  of 99 

two  meanings 86 

Trilogy..  ..147,  157,  173 

Tristan    285 

Trochaic  tetrameter 325 

Two  arrangements 105 

Two  heroes - 128 

Tybalt -.33,  34,  76,  08,  99, 

126,  127,  136 

U 

Unit,  logical --  213 

Unity  of  action 9,27,  36 

place 29 

time 29 

Unity,  false 38 

Unusual,  the... --  54 

Urians 238 


Verona 30 

Verse  and  color -..  323 

and  drama 324 

dramatic  recital --  330 

Vienna   364 

Virgin  Mary -. 56,60,    61 

Voices  distributed 244 

Volscians 76,  185 


382 


INDEX. 


Wallenstein . 
107,  116, 
202,  206, 


Camp 

Death 

five  acts  of 
Wallenstein 
203,  204, 

220,  265, 


w 

40,  43.  72,  78, 

119,  120,  165, 
207,  220,  223, 
228,  308,  311,  316 

209 

206,   207 

203 

-16,  17,40,45, 

205,  206,  207, 
268,  269,  270, 
271,  272,  306,  316 


Walter  Furst 198 

Weislingen 262 

Will  and  deed 188 

Witches  in  Macbeth  ..  -60,  188 

Women's  parts 184 

Work,  poet  and  his- 341 

not  easy 344 

Worms 267 

Wrangel-204,  206,  207,223, 

269,272,311,  314 


Wuoton 


292 


Wurm 127 


NOTES. 


NOTE  i,  page  18. — Even  Aristotle  comprehended  most 
thoroughly  this  first  part  of  the  poet's  work,  the  fashioning  and 
developing  of  the  poetic  idea.  If,  in  comparison  with  history, 
he  makes  poetry  the  more  significant  and  philosophical,  because 
poetry  represents  what  is  common  to  all  men,  while  history  gives 
an  account  of  the  incidental,  or  special  detail ;  and  because  his- 
tory presents  what  has  happened,  while  poetry  shows  how  it 
could  have  happened,  —  yet  we  moderns,  impressed  with  the 
weight  and  grandeur  of  historical  ideas,  must  reject  his  com- 
parative estimate  of  the  two  fundamentally  different  kinds  of 
composition  ;  we  shall,  however,  concede  the  fine  distinction  in 
his  definition.  He  indicates,  in  a  sentence  immediately  follow- 
ing this  and  often  misunderstood,  the  process  of  idealization. 
He  says,  IX.,  4  :  "That  which  in  poetry  is  common  to  human- 
ity, is  produced  in  this  way, — the  speeches  and  actions  of  the 
characters  are  made  to  appear  probable  and  necessary ;  and 
that  which  is  humanly  universal  poetry  works  out  from  the  raw 
material  and  then  gives  to  the  characters  appropriate  names," 
— whether  using  those  already  at  hand  in  the  raw  material  or 
inventing  new  ones.  (Buckley's  translation  is  as  follows:  But 
universal  consists  indeed  in  relating  or  performing  certain 
things  which  happen  to  a  man  of  a  certain  description,  either 
probably  or  necessarily,  to  which  the  aim  of  poetry  is  directed 
in  giving  names.)  Aristotle  was  of  the  opinion,  too,  that  a  poet 
would  do  well  at  the  beginning  of  his  work  to  place  before  him- 
self the  material  which  had  attracted  him,  in  a  formula  stripped 
of  all  incidentals,  or  non-essentials;  and  he  develops  this  idea 
more  fully  in  another  place,  XVII.,  6,  7  :  "The  Iphigenia  and 
the  Orestes  of  the  drama  are  not  at  all  the  same  as  those  in  the 
material  which  came  to  the  poet.  For  the  poet  who  composed 
the  play  it  is  almost  an  accident  that  they  bear  these  names. 

383 


384  NOTES. 

Only  when  the  poet  has  raised  his  actions  and  his  characters 
above  the  incidental,  the  real,  that  which  has  actually  happened, 
and  in  place  of  this  has  put  a  meaning,  a  significance  which  will 
be  generally  received,  which  appears  to  us  probable  and  neces- 
sary,— only  then  is  he  again  to  make  use  of  color  and  tone,  names 
and  circumstances,  from  the  raw  material."  Therefore  it  is  also 
possible  that  dramas  which  have  been  taken  from  very  different 
realms  of  material,  express,  fundamentally,  the  same  meaning, 
or,  as  we  put  it,  represent  the  same  poetical  idea.  This  is  the 
thought  in  the  passages  cited. 

NOTE  2,  page  22. — The  few  technical  terms  used  in  this 
book  must  be  received  by  the  reader  without  prejudice  and 
without  confusion.  In  their  common  use  for  the  last  century 
several  of  them  have  passed  through  many  changes  of  meaning. 
What  is  here  called  action,  the  material  already  arranged  for 
the  drama  (in  Aristotle,  myth  ;  in  the  Latin  writers,  fa^/e),  Less- 
ing  sometimes  still  calls  fable,  while  the  raw  material,  the 
praxis  or  the  pragma  of  Aristotle,  he  calls  action.  But  Lessing 
also  sometimes  uses  the  word  action  more  correctly,  giving  it 
the  meaning  which  it  has  here. 

NOTE  3,  page  28. — As  is  well  known,  unity  of  place  is  not 
demanded  by  Aristotle ;  and  concerning  the  uninterrupted  con- 
tinuity of  time  he  says  only  that  tragedy  should  try  as  far  as 
possible  to  limit  its  action  to  one  course  of  the  sun.  Among 
the  Greeks,  as  may  be  shown,  it  was  only  Sophocles  and  his 
school  who,  in  the  practice  of  their  art,  adhered  to  what  we  call 
the  unity  of  place  and  of  time.  And  with  good  reason.  The 
rapid,  condensed  action  of  Sophocles,  with  its  regular  structure, 
needed  so  very  short  a  part  of  the  story  or  tradition  that  the 
events  underlying  it  could  frequently  occur  in  the  same  brief 
space  of  a  few  hours  which  the  representation  on  the  stage 
required.  If  Sophocles  avoided  such  a  change  of  scene,  as,  for 
example,  occurs  in  ./Eschylus's  Eumenides,  he  had  a  peculiar 
reason.  We  know  that  he  thought  much  of  scenic  decoration  ; 
he  had  introduced  a  more  artistic  decoration  of  the  back- 
ground ;  and  for  his  theatrical  day  he  positively  needed  for  the 
four  pieces  four  great  curtains,  which  with  the  gigantic  pro- 
portions of  the  scene  at  the  Acropolis  occasioned  an  immense 
outlay.  A  change  of  the  entire  background  during  the  repre- 


NOTES.  385 

sentation  was  not  allowable ;  and  the  mere  transposition  of 
the  periakte,  if  these  had  been  introduced  at  all  in  the  time  of 
Sophocles,  would  be  to  the  taste  of  an  ancient  stage  director  as 
imperfect  an  arrangement  as  the  change  of  side  curtains,  with- 
out the  change  of  background,  would  be  to  us.  It  may  not  be 
so  well  known  that  Shakespeare,  who  treats  time  and  space 
with  so  much  freedom,  because  the  fixed  architecture  of  his 
stage  spared  him  from  indicating,  or  made  it  easy  for  him  to 
indicate  the  change  of  scenes,  presented  his  pieces  on  a  stage 
which  was  the  unornamented  successor  of  the  Attic  proscenium. 
This  proscenium  had  been  gradually  transformed  by  slight 
changes  into  the  Roman  theater,  the  mystery-platform  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  the  scaffold  of  Hans  Sachs.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  same  classical  period  of  the  French  theater,  which  so 
rigidly  and  anxiously  sought  to  revive  the  Greek  traditions,  has 
bequeathed  us  the  deep,  camera-like  structure  of  our  stage, 
which  had  its  origin  in  the  needs  of  the  ballet  and  the  opera. 

NOTE  4,  page  31.  —  The  details  of  the  novel,  and  what 
Shakespeare  changed  in  it,  may  be  here  passed  over. 

NOTE  5,  page  46. — It  is  a  poor  expedient  of  our  stage  direc- 
tors to  neutralize  or  render  harmless  the  weakest  of  these 
groups,  the  Attinghausen  family,  by  cutting  their  roles  as  much 
as  possible,  and  then  depreciating  them  still  more  by  commit- 
ting them  to  weak  actors.  The  injury  is  by  this  means  all  the 
more  striking.  This  play  of  Schiller's  should  either  be  so  pre- 
sented as  to  produce  most  completely  the  effects  intended  by 
the  author,  in  which  case  the  three  barren  roles,  Freiherr, 
Rudenz,  Hertha,  must  be  endowed  with  sufficient  force,  —  our 
actors  can  thus  express  their  gratitude  to  the  poet  who  has 
done  so  much  for  them  ;  or  else,  the  Tell  action  only  should  l>e 
presented  as  it  may  be  most  easily  made  effective  on  our  stage, 
and  the  three  roles  should  be  entirely  stricken  out,  —  a  thing 
that  is  possible  with  very  slight  changes. 

NOTE  6,  page  47. — Even  in  the  time  of  the  Greeks  the  word, 
episode,  had  a  little  history.  In  the  earliest  period  of  the 
drama  it  denoted  the  transition  from  one  choral  song  to  the  fol- 
lowing: then,  after  the  introduction  of  actors,  first,  the  short 
speeches,  messenger-scenes,  dialogues,  and  so  forth,  which  com- 


386  NOTES. 

prised  the  transitions  and  motives  for  the  new  moods  of  the 
chorus.  After  the  extension  of  these  recited  parts  the  word 
remained,  in  the  developed  drama,  as  an  old  designation  of  any 
part  of  the  drama  which  stood  between  two  choral  songs.  In 
this  meaning  it  nearly  corresponds  to  our  act,  or  more  accur- 
ately, to  our  elaborated  scene.  In  the  workshop  of  the  Greek 
poet  it  became  a  designation  of  that  part  of  the  action  which 
the  poet  with  free  invention  inserted  as  a  richer  furnishing,  as 
a  means  of  animating  his  old  mythological  material ;  for  instance, 
in  Antigone,  that  scene  between  Antigone,  Ismene,  and  Creon, 
in  which  the  innocent  Ismene  declares  herself  an  accomplice  of 
her  sister.  In  this  signification,  an  episode  might  fill  the  entire 
interval  between  two  choral  songs  ;  but  as  a  rule  it  was  shorter. 
Its  places  were  generally  in  the  rising  action,  only  occasionally 
in  the  return  action — our  second,  and  fourth  act.  Because  with 
this  meaning  it  denoted  little  portions  of  the  action,  which  might 
indeed  have  originated  in  the  most  vital  necessities  of  the  drama, 
but  which  were  not  indispensable  for  the  connection  of  the 
events ;  and  because  since  Euripides,  poets  have  sought  more 
and  more  frequently  for  effect-scenes  which  stood  in  very  loose 
connection  with  the  idea  and  the  action,— there  came  to  be 
attached  to  the  word  this  secondary  meaning  of  an  unmotived 
and  arbitrary  insertion.  In  The  Poetics  the  word  is  used  in  all 
of  the  three  meanings:  in  XII.,  5,  it  is  a  stage-manager's  term; 
in  XVII.,  8-10,  it  is  a  technical  expression  of  the  poet;  in  X.,  3, 
it  has  its  secondary  significance. 

NOTE  7,  page  72. — The  structure  of  the  drama  is  disturbed 
by  this  irregularity  in  the  ordering  of  the  action,  which  appears 
like  a  relapse  into  the  old  customs  of  the  English  popular  thea- 
ter. The  action  offered  in  the  material  and  the  idea  was  as 
follows :  Act  I.  Antony  at  Cleopatra's,  and  his  separation 
from  her.  Act  II.  Reconciliation  with  Caesar,  and  restoration 
to  power.  Act  III.  Return  to  the  Egyptian  woman,  with  cli- 
max. Act  IV.  Sacrifice  of  principle,  flight,  and  last  struggle. 
Act  V.  Catastrophe  of  Antony  and  of  Cleopatra.  But  the 
deviation  of  Shakespeare's  play  from  the  regular  structure  is 
for  a  more  profound  reason.  The  inner  life  of  the  debauched 
Antony  possessed  no  great  wealth,  and  in  its  new  infatuation 
offered  the  poet  little  that  was  attractive.  But  his  darling 


NOTES.  387 

dramatic  figure,  Cleopatra,  in  the  development  of  which  he  had 
evinced  his  consummate,  masterly  art,  was  not  a  character 
adapted  to  great  dramatic  emotion  and  excitement ;  the  various 
scenes  in  which  she  appears  full  of  passionate  demeanor  with- 
out passion,  resemble  brilliant  variations  of  the  same  theme. 
In  her  relations  with  Antony  she  is  portrayed  just  often  enough 
and  from  the  most  diverse  points  of  view  to  present  a  rich  pic- 
ture of  the  vixenish  coquette.  The  return  of  Antony  gave  the 
poet  no  new  task  with  respect  to  her.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
exaltation  of  this  character  in  a  desperate  situation,  under  the 
fear  of  death,  was  a  fascinating  subject  for  him,  and  to  a  certain 
extent  rightly  so;  for  herein  was  an  opportunity  for  a  most 
peculiar,  gradual  intensification.  Shakespeare,  then,  sacrificed 
to  these  scenes  a  part  of  the  action.  He  threw  together  the 
climax  and  the  return  action,  indicating  them  in  little  scenes, 
and  accorded  to  the  catastrophe  two  acts.  For  the  aggregate 
effect  of  the  play,  this  is  a  disadvantage.  We  are  indebted  to 
him,  however,  for  the  scene  of  Cleopatra's  death  in  the  monu- 
ment,— of  all  that  is  extraordinary  in  Shakespeare,  perhaps  the 
most  astonishing.  That  the  accessory  persons,  Octavianus  and 
his  sister,  just  at  the  summit  of  the  action,  were  more  important 
to  the  poet  than  his  chief  person,  is  perhaps  due  to  the  fact  that 
to  the  poet  in  advanced  life,  any  single  person  with  his  joy  and 
his  sorrow  must  seem  small  and  insignificant,  while  the  poet 
was  contemplating,  prophetically  and  reverentially,  the  historical 
and  established  order  of  things. 

NOTE  8,  page  83. — The  scene  is,  however,  by  no  means  to 
be  omitted, — as  indeed  happens.  Moreover,  an  abbreviation 
must  make  prominent  the  contrast  with  the  first,  the  imperial 
hardness  of  the  tyrant,  the  lurking  hostility  of  the  mother,  and 
Richard's  deception  by  a  woman  whom  he  despises.  If  our 
stage  directors  would  not  endure  more,  they  might  tolerate  the 
following:  Of  the  lines  in  the  passage  beginning, 

Stay,  madam,  I  must  speak  a  word  with  you, 

and  extending  to  the  end  of  the  scene,  to  Richard's  words, 

Bear  her  my  true-love's  kiss;  and  so  farewell, 

numbered  consecutively  from  198  to  436,  Globe  Edition,  the  fol- 
lowing lines  might  remain:  198-201;  203-206;  251-256;  257; 


388  NOTES. 

293-298;  300;  301 ;  310,  311;  320-325;  328;  330;  340-357;  407- 
418;  420;  422-424;  433-436- 

NOTE  9,  page  101. —  Both  of  these  expressions  of  the  craft 
are  still  occasionally  misunderstood.  Peripeteia  does  not  always 
denote  the  last  part  of  the  action  from  the  climax  downward, 
which  in  Aristotle  is  called  Katabasis ;  but  it  is  only  what  is 
here  called  "tragic  force,"  —  a  single  scene-effect,  sometimes 
only  a  part  of  a  scene.  The  chapter  on  the  Anangorisis,  how- 
ever, one  of  the  most  instructive  in  the  Poetics,  because  it 
affords  a  glimpse  into  the  craftsman's  method  of  poetic  work, 
once  appeared  to  the  publishers  as  not  authentic. 

NOTE  10,  page  147. — That  the  choruses  did  not,  as  a  rule, 
rush  in  and  off  again,  but  claimed  a  good  share  of  the  time, 
may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  that  in  Sophocles  sometimes  a 
brief  chorus  fills  up  the  time  which  the  player  needs  to  go 
behind  the  scenes  to  change  his  costume,  or  to  pass  from  his 
door  to  the  side-entrance,  through  which  he  must  enter  in  a  new 
role.  Thirteen  lines  and  two  strophes  of  a  little  chorus  suffice 
for  the  deuteragonist  whose  exit,  as  Jocasta,  has  been  made 
through  the  back-door,  to  change  costume  and  reappear  upon 
the  stage  as  shepherd  from  the  field  side.  Upon  the  stage  of 
the  Acropolis  this  was  no  little  distance. 

NOTE  ii,  page  147. — That  a  favorite  order  of  presentation 
was  from  the  gloomy,  the  horrible,  to  the  brighter  and  more 
cheerful,  we  may  infer  from  the  circumstance  that  Antigone 
and  Electro,  were  first  pieces  of  the  day.  This  is  known  from 
Antigone  not  only  by  the  first  choral-song,  the  first  beautiful 
strophe  of  which  is  a  morning  song,  but  also  from  the  character 
of  the  action  which  gives  to  the  great  role  of  the  pathos  actor 
only  the  first  half  of  the  piece,  and  thus  lays  the  center  of 
gravity  toward  the  beginning.  In  the  most  beautiful  poem 
it  would  not  have  been  advisable  to  entrust  to  the  so-little- 
esteemed  third  actor  (who,  nevertheless,  is  sometimes  shown  a 
preference  by  Sophocles)  the  closing  effects  of  the  last  piece, 
so  important  in  securing  the  decision  of  the  judges.  In  the 
prologue  of  Electra,  also,  the  rising  sun  and  the  festal  Bacchic 
costume  are  mentioned.  The  beautiful,  broadly  elaborated 
situation  in  the  prologue  of  King  QLdipus  and  the  structure  of 


NOTES.  389 

Ajax,  the  center  of  gravity  of  which  lies  in  the  first  half,  and 
which  distinctly  reveals  the  early  morning,  seem  to  point  to 
these  as  first  pieces.  The  Trachinian  Women  probably  en- 
tered the  contest  as  a  middle  piece ;  (Ettiflus  'at  Colonos,  with 
its  magnificent  conclusion,  and  Philoctetes  with  its  splendid 
pathos  role  and  reconciling  conclusion,  as  closing  pieces.  The 
conjectures  which  are  based  upon  the  technical  character  of 
the  pieces,  have  at  least  more  probability  than  conjectures 
which  are  drawn  from  a  comparison  or  collation  of  dramas 
which  have  been  preserved,  with  such  as  have  not  been. 

NOTE  12,  page  148. — Six  pieces  of  Sophocles  contain  an 
average  of  about  1,118  verses,  exclusive  of  the  speeches  and 
songs  of  the  chorus.  Only  (Edipus  at  Colonos  is  longer.  If, 
again,  the  number  of  verses  of  each  of  the  three  players  is  on 
the  average  about  equal,  the  tragedies  of  a  day,  together  with 
a  burlesque  of  the  length  of  The  Cyclops  (about  500  verses  for 
three  players)  would  give  to  each  player  a  total  of  about  1,300 
verses.  But  the  task  of  the  first  player  was  already,  on  account 
of  the  affecting  pathos  scenes  and  on  account  of  the  songs,  dis- 
proportionately greater.  Besides,  much  more  must  be  expected 
from  him.  If  in  the  three  pieces  of  Sophocles  in  which  the  hero 
suffers  from  a  disease  inflicted  by  the  gods  (Ajax,  The  Trachin- 
ian Women,  Philoctetes}  the  parts  of  the  first  player  are  summed 
up,  (Ajax,  Teucros,  Heracles,  Lichas,  Philoctetes)  there  will  be 
about  1,440  verses;  and  with  the  burlesque,  there  will  be  about 
1,600  verses:  and  there  is  the  effort  required  to  carry  through 
six  roles  and  sing  about  six  songs.  There  is  no  doubt  that,  in 
the  composition  of  his  tetralogies,  Sophocles  gave  attention  to 
the  pauses  for  rest  for  his  three  players.  Each  last  tragedy 
demanded  the  most  powerful  effort ;  and  it  must  also,  as  a  rule, 
have  demanded  most  from  the  first  actor.  That  The  Trachin- 
ian Women  was  not  a  third  piece  may  be  inferred  from  the 
fact  that  in  it  the  second  actor  had  the  chief  role. 

NOTE  13,  page  153. — In  the  extant  plays  of  Sophocles,  the 
assignment  of  roles  among  the  three  actors  is  as  follows,  Pro- 
tagonist, Deuteragonist,  Tritagonist,  being  indicated  by  the 
numbers  i,  2,  3,  respectively: — 

King  (Edipus:  i,  (Edipus.  2,  Priest,  Jocasta,  Shepherd, 
Messenger  of  the  catastrophe.  3,  Creon,  Tiresias,  Messenger. 


390  NOTES. 

CEdipus  at  Colonos :  i,  CEdipus,  Messenger  of  the  catas- 
trophe. 2,  Antigone,  *Theseus  (in  the  climax  scene).  3,  Colon- 
ians,  Ismene,  Theseus  (in  the  other  scenes),  Creon,  Polynices. 

Antigone:  *i,  Antigone,  Tiresias,  Messenger  of  the  catas- 
trophe. 2,  Ismene,  Watchman,  Haemon,  *Eurydice,  Servant. 
3,  Creon. 

The  Trachinian  Women:  i,  *Maid-servant,  Lichas,  Hera- 
cles. 2,  Deianeira,  Nurse  (as  messenger  of  the  catastrophe),  Old 
man.  3,  Hyllos,  Messenger. 

Ajax :  i.  Ajax,  Teucros.  2,  Odysseus,  Tecmessa.  3, 
Athene,  Messenger,  Menelaus,  Agamemnon. 

Philoctetes :  i,  Philoctetes.  2,  Neoptolemos.  3,  Odysseus, 
Merchant,  Heracles. 

Electra :  i,  Electra.  2,  Warden,  Chrysothemis,  ^tgisthos. 
3,  Orestes,  Clytemnestra. 

The  roles  marked  *  are  uncertain.  Besides  the  three  act- 
ors, the  Attic  stage  always  had  several  accessory  players  for 
dumb-show  roles :  thus  in  Electra,  Pylades ;  in  The  Trachin- 
ian Women,  the  especially  distinguished  role  of  lole  in  which 
perhaps  Sophocles  would  present  to  the  public  a  young  actor 
whom  he  esteemed.  It  is  probable  that  these  accessory  players 
sometimes  relieved  the  actors  of  less  important  subordinate 
roles, — for  example,  in  Antigone,  Eurydice,  which  is  treated 
very  briefly ;  and  in  The  Trachinian  Women,  the  maid-servant 
of  the  prologue.  How  else  could  they  test  their  voices  and 
their  powers  ?  Such  aid  as  was  rendered  by  characters  dis- 
guised from  the  audience  by  masks,  was  not  reckoned  playing. 
The  accessory  actors  were  also  needed  as  representatives  of  the 
three  players  upon  the  stage,  if  the  presence  of  a  mask  was 
desirable  in  a  scene,  and  the  player  of  this  scene  must  at  the 
same  time  assume  another  role ;  then  the  accessory  player  fig- 
ured in  like  costume  and  the  required  mask,  as  a  rule  without 
saying  any  lines;  but  sometimes  single  lines  must  be  given 
him.  Thus  Ismene,  in  the  second  half  of  CEdipus  at  Colonos,  is 
represented  by  an  accessory  player,  while  the  player  himself 
represents  Theseus  and  Polynices.  This  piece  has  the  peculiar- 
ity that  at  least  at  the  climax,  one  scene  of  Theseus  is  presented 
by  the  second  actor,  the  player  of  Antigone,  while  the  remain- 
ing scenes  of  this  role  are  presented  by  the  third  actor.  If  the 


NOTI.S.  391 

player  had  practiced  the  voice,  and  so  forth,  this  substitution 
for  a  single  scene  di<l  nut  offer  special  difficulty.  It  is  possible, 
however,  that  the  player  of  the  role  of  Antigone,  also  gave  the 
first  Theseus  scene.  Antigone  has  gone  into  the  grove  in  the 
background,  in  order  to  watch  her  father;  she  may  very  con- 
veniently appear  again  as  Theseus,  while  a  stage-walker  goes 
ii|>  and  down  in  her  mask.  If  even  in  this  play,  a  fourth  actor 
had  taken  part,  in  any  role  of  importance,  some  account  would 
have  come  to  us  of  what  even  at  that  time  would  have  been  a 
striking  innovation. 

NOTE  14,  page  155.  —  Upon  our  stage  every  play  has  one 
first  hero,  but  more  chief  roles;  not  frequently  is  one  of  these 
more  ample  and  of  deeper  interest  than  that  of  the  first  hero, 
as,  for  example,  the  role  of  Falstaff  in  Henry  IV. 

NOTE  15,  page  156.  —  The  presuppositions  of  The  Trachin- 
ian  Women  are,  so  far  as  Deianeira  is  concerned,  very  simple; 
but  Heracles  is  the  first  hero,  ami  his  preparation  for  being 
received  among  the  gods  was  the  master-stroke  of  the  play. 

NOTE  16,  page  156. — It  is  impossible  just  in  Sophocles,  from 
the  extant  names  of  lost  plays  and  from  scattered  verses,  to 
come  to  any  conclusion  as  to  the  contents  of  the  plays.  What 
one  might  think  from  the  tradition  to  be  the  contents  of  the 
play,  could  often  prove  to  be  only  the  contents  of  the  prologue. 

NOTE  17,  page  178. — Prologue:  Neoptolemos,  Odysseus. 
Chorus  and  Neoptolemos  in  Antiphone  — 

II.  Messenger  scene  with  recognition, 
Philoctetes,  Neoptolemos. 
2.  Messenger  scene,  The  same,  and  Merchant. 

3.  Recognition  scene  (of  the  bow), 
Philoctetes,  Neoptolemos. 
Choral  song  — 
Climax,  i.  Double  pathos  scene, 

Philoctetes,  Neoptolemos. 
Tragic  Force,  2.  Dialogue  scene,    The  same,  Odysseus. 


392  NOTES. 

Chorus  and  Philoctetes  in  Antiphone  — 

i.  Dialogue  scene,  Neoptolemos,  Odysseus. 
r  .     •  2.  Dialogue  scene,  Philoctetes,  Neoptolemos; 


.mil 


afterward  Odysseus. 


h  3'  Announcement  and  conclusion, 

Philoctetes,  Neoptolemos, 
Heracles. 

NOTE  1 8,  page  183. — The  "balcony  scene"  belongs,  on  our 
stage,  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  not  in  the  second ;  but  this 
makes  the  first  act  disproportionately  long.  It  is  a  disadvant- 
age that  our  (German)  division  of  plays  often  makes  a  break  in 
the  action  where  a  rapid  movement  is  demanded,  or  only  a  very 
short  interruption  is  allowed. 

NOTE  19,  page  208. — Let  this  structure  be  represented  by 
means  of  lines.  (See  page  115.) 

1.  A  DRAMA,  such  as  did  not  lie  in  Schiller's  plan.     Idea:    A 
perfidious  general  endeavors  to  make  the  army  desert  its 
commander,  but  is  deserted  by  his  soldiers  and  put  to  death. 

a.  Exciting  force:  inciting  to  treason. 

b.  Rising  action  :  certain  stipulations  with  the  enemy. 

c.  Climax :  apparent  success ;  the  subtly  sought  signature 

of  the  generals. 

d.  Return  action :  the  conscience  of  the  army  is  awakened. 

e.  Catastrophe :  death  of  the  general. 

2.  SCHILLER'S   Wallenstein   without    The  Piccolomini.     Idea : 
Through  excessive  power,  intrigues  of  opponents,  and  his 
own  proud  heart,  a  general  is  betrayed  into  treason  ;  he  seeks 
to  make  the  army  desert  its  commander,  etc. 

In  this  a,  b,  c,  rising  action  to  climax ; 
inner  struggles  and  temptations. 

a.  Questenberg  in  camp,  and  separation 

from  emperor. 

b.  Testing  the  generals  ;  banquet  scene. 

c.  Climax :  the  first  act  of  treason ;  for 

example,  the  treating  with  Wrangel. 
cd.  Attempts  to  mislead  the  army. 

d.  Return  action :  the  conscience  of  the  soldiers  is  awak- 

ened. 

e.  Catastrophe  :  death  of  Wallenstein. 


NOTES. 


393 


A 


3.  THK  Dorm.K  DRAMA. 

A.  The  Piccolomini,  indicated  by  the  dotted  lines. 

H.  li'ti//i-nsti-in's  Death,  indicated  by  plain  lines. 

aa.  The  two  exciting 
forces,  a',  the  gen- 
erals and  Questen- 
bcrg,  for  the  com- 
bined action  ;  a-, 
Max's  and  Thekla's 
arrival  for  The  Pic- 
coloHiini. 

cc.  The  two  climaxes,  c, 
release  of  Max  from 
Octavio,  at  the  same 
time,  catastrophe  of 
The  Piccolomini  ;  c2, 

Wallenstein  and  Wrangel,  at  the  same  time  the  excit- 
ing force  of  \\rallcnslcin  s  Death. 

ee.  The  two  concluding  catastrophes,  e',  of  the  lovers,  and 
e*,  of  Wallenstein.  Further,  b,  the  love  scene  between 
Max  and  Thekla  is  the  climax  of  The  Piccolomini  ; 
f  and  g  are  the  scenes  interwoven  from  \Vallenstein  s 
Death :  audience  of  Questenberg,  and  banquet,  the 
second  and  fourth  acts  of  The  Piccolomini ;  h,  d,  and 
e'  are  scenes  interwoven  from  The  Piccolomini  and 
Wallenstein  s  Death :  Octavio's  intrigue,  the  departure 
of  Max,  the  announcement  of  his  death,  together  with 
Thekla's  flight,  —  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  acts, 
d,  is  the  scene  of  the  cuirassiers,  at  the  same  time  the 
climax  of  the  second  drama. 

NOTE  20,  page  212. — In  printing  our  plays,  it  frequently 
happens  that  within  acts,  only  those  scenes  are  set  off  and  num- 
bered which  demand  a  shifting  of  scenery.  The  correct  method, 
however,  would  be  to  count  and  number  the  scenes  within  an 
act  according  to  their  order  of  succession  ;  and  where  a  change 
of  scenery  is  necessary,  and  must  be  indicated,  add  to  the  cur- 
rent scene  number  the  word  "change,"  and  indicate  the  charac- 
ter of  the  new  stage  setting. 


/,  i!  l;  I  J 


NOTES. 


NOTE  21,  page  237. — The  act  is  in  two  parts.  The  first 
preparatory  part  contains  three  short  dramatic  components : 
the  entrance  of  Max,  the  submitting  of  the  forged  documents 
by  the  intriguers,  Buttler's  connection  with  them.  At  this 
point  the  great  conclusion  begins,  introduced  by  the  conversa- 
tion of  the  servants.  The  carousing  generals  must  not  be  seen 
during  the  entire  act  in  the  middle  and  back  ground  :  the  stage 
presents  to  better  advantage  an  ante-room  of  the  banquet  hall, 
separated  from  this  by  pillars  and  a  rear  wall,  so  that  the  com- 
pany, previous  to  its  entrance  at  the  close,  is  seen  only  indis- 
tinctly and  only  an  occasional  convenient  call  and  movement  of 
groups  are  noticed.  In  Wallenstein,  Schiller  was  still  a  care- 
less stage  director;  but  from  the  date  of  that  play  he  became 
more  careful  in  stage  arrangement.  Among  the  peculiarities  of 
clear  portrayal  in  this  scene,  belongs  the  unfeeling  degradation 
of  Max.  It  is  wonderfully  repeated  by  Kleist  in  The  Prince  of 
Hamburg.  Shakespeare  does  not  characterize  dreamers  by 
their  silence,  but  by  their  distracted  and  yet  profound  speeches. 

NOTE  22,  page  308. — Of  course  Emilia  Galotti  must  be 
represented  in  the  costume  of  the  time,  1772.  The  piece 
demands  another  consideration  in  acting.  From  the  third 
act,  the  curtain  must  not  be  dropped  for  pauses  between  acts ; 
and  these  should  be  very  short. 

NOTE  23,  page  361. — Twenty  of  our  great  dramas  have  the 
following  lengths  in  verses  : 

Don  Carlos        •        -    5,471  Othello       .        -        -    3,*33 

Maria  Stuart        -        3,927  Coriolanus     -  3,124 

Wallenstein' s  Death  -    3,865  Romeo  and  Juliet  2,979 

Nathan  the  Wise  -        3,847  Bride  of  Messina  -         2,845 

Hamlet      -        -        -    3,715  The  Piccolo-mini        -    2,669 

Richard  III.  -        -        3,603  Merchant  of  Venice        2,600 

Torqu'ato  Tasso          -    3,453  Julius  Ccesar     -        -    2,590 

Maid  of  Orleans    -        3,394  Iphigenia       -        -        2,174 

William  Tell     -        -    3,286  Macbeth     -        -        -    2,116 

King  Lear     -        -        3,255  Prince  of  Hamburg        1.854 

These  figures  do  not  pretend  to  absolute  correctness,  since 
the  incomplete  verses  are  to  be  deducted ;  and  the  prose  pas- 
sages, in  which  Shakespeare  is  especially  rich,  admit  of  only  a 


ru 

NOTES.  395 

rough  estimate.  The  prose  plays,  Emilia  Galotti,  Claingo. 
I:g»iont,  /.<'7v  <jni/  Intrigue,  correspond  more  nearly  to  the 
length  of  the  plays  of  our  own  time.  Of  the  dramas  in  ver>e, 
enumerated  above,  only  the  last  three  can  he  presented  entire, 
without  that  abbreviation  which  is  necessary  on  other  grounds. 
It  would  require  six  hours  to  play  all  of  Don  Carlos,  which  in 
length  exceeds  all  bounds. 

Since  \\'allfii$teins  Camp — together  with  the  lyric  lines  — 
has  1,105  rapid  verses,  the  three  parts  of  the  dramatic  poem, 
\\'alli /is/e-itt,  contain  7,639  verses ;  and  their  representation  on 
the  stage,  the  same  day,  would  require  about  the  same  time  as 
the  ObtramHifrgtiu  Passion  Play.  No  single  chief  role  is  so 
comprehensive  that  it  would  place  an  excessive  burden  upon 
an  actor  to  carry  it  through  in  a  single  day. 


•   ,, 

.  ill : 

: :     '  -V    1 


